


Wandering Wolves

by IncognitoMe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Alternating, Pre-Canon, Pre-Rebellion Story, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoMe/pseuds/IncognitoMe
Summary: At seven years old Eddard Stark sees his mother killed in front of him. Focused on becoming strong enough to protect his siblings from all possible harm, he seeks training from his grandfather Rodrik, the Wandering Wolf.When Rickard Stark makes plans to foster his son at the Vale, Rodrik Stark intervenes and offers to raise Ned on the road himself.Who will they encounter on their travels through Westeros?Who will Ned grow up to be?Tags and summary will be updated when relevant content goes online.Craving criticique + comments





	1. Ned I / Winterfell / 270 AC

Mother was gone for two weeks now and still Ned woke every night, crying and shaking, with the deserter waiting in his dreams.  
He had cried, too, when Mother had pushed him out of harm’s way and the knife had pierced her jugular.  
After, when they arrived at Winterfell his tears had dried. He had not cried in front of Lya or little Ben. He had promised Mother. Protect the pact.

Mother had been against him seeing his first execution at seven.  
But Rickard insisted, saying Bran was with the Dustins now and already they had failed at containing Bran’s wolf’s blood. Maybe his blood would have cooled if he had seen the weight a Stark carries when he has to uphold the realm’s laws.  
Blood like winter instead of blood of the wolf.

"But our dearest Ned is not wild", Mother had protested, "and Bran is wild but kind. Show Bran when he is ten and Ned when he is ten.  
Like I saw my first execution when I was ten and you saw yours when you were ten, back when your father showed us how to follow the old way".

Rickard had been set in his decision, not willing to wait another day. Oh, if they just had…  
So off they went to execute the deserter of the Night’s Watch and Mother had come along, to hold Ned and to keep him warm. And the world still had colors.

It wasn’t supposed to go like it had.  
Where did the deserter hide a knife on him? How did he wrest himself free?  
Why did he go for Ned with his knife and why, why did Mother stop in front of him then! 

Ned forgave Rickard for Mother’s death. But Ned did not forgive himself Mother’s death, at first. Only Mother herself forgave Ned as she lay dying. And all the world was red.

"I love you Ned", Mother had said, "I always will, even when I am not here anymore. Don’t blame yourself for living. Protect your pack. Tell Bran, Lya and Ben I loved them and love them, tell them on every day that I can’t tell them myself."

Mother tried to say more, something to fa – to Rickard but only a wet, labored wheeze escaped before her eyes broke.

Lya and Ben did not understand Mother’s death.  
They still asked for her, but less now that Ned took them playing in the Wolfswood every day.  
Still, whenever they asked for her Ned told them that Mother loved them all. He also told them so when he woke them up and when he tucked them in.  
He would keep his promise; he would protect his pack. His pack helped the colors come back.  
Brandon understood. Ned told Brandon of his promise to Mother and Brandon promised to protect the pack with him.  
But Brandon had the wolf’s blood and without mother he had only gotten wilder.  
With the way Bran went about trying to protect the pack from anything, Ned was afraid, that his big brother could forget to protect himself. So Ned would need to protect Bran as well. 

Lyanna though, Lyanna was already showing the wolf’s blood like Bran and she would not like to be protected forever, Ned could see that.  
He hoped Bran could see it as well and listen to her, not smother her in the name of protection.  
But Bran did not like to listen and Lyanna did not like to be smothered, so Ned would just have to be strong enough to protect the pack despite themselves.

With a plan forming in his head, Ned slept fitfully like he always had since Lady Lyarra Stark’s death at the hands of an insignificant common Night’s Watch deserter.

The next morning Ned sought out the best fighter in the North, his mother’s father Rodrik the Wandering Wolf, to train him to be the strong enough to protect his pack from anything that may threaten it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, first fic here.
> 
> Leave your thoughts.
> 
> I have a roadmap for this fic written down for the years 270 to 290 AC following mostly Ned from 7 to 27 years old.  
> 11 pages pure plot planned. Hope I manage to keep the excitement up and get myself to write somewhat consistently.  
> Will upload five chapters today and maybe a sixth later. No promises.
> 
> Summary will be updated when relevant content goes online.


	2. Rodrik I / Winterfell / 270 AC

“No.”  
He could see his grandson pause and ponder over his rejection to train him.  
Good. He would not teach a brash fool; the young pup would need to convince him.  
Brandon had asked him years ago and become irate at his refusal.  
Rodrik hoped that at least one of his grandsons wouldn’t be prone to letting his wolf’s blood run free or better yet, show winter in his veins instead.

“Why?” Little Ned looked up at him, appraising him.  
There was a glint of cold intelligence in his eyes, calculating and observing. A seed worth nurturing, maybe.  
He had not seen the steel in Ned before. Maybe it was not there just two weeks ago. A horrible way to grow up, but what’s done is done.  
Even Rickard had not told him all about that day. Only that his little Lyarra was dead, her murderer was brought to justice and that Ned was there and witnessed it all.  
When Rodrik moved to press the issue he only stopped when he saw the endless grief in his good son’s face. Grief and guilt. And now Ned was here, no guilt, little grief and all steel.

“Let me throw the question back at you, pup. Why come to me?  
I know that you’re training with the Cassel brats under their father and Ser Cassel is a fine master-at-arms.  
You don’t need me to instruct you. I would not be as lenient in teaching either. You can learn under a proper knight, is that not every boy’s dream?”  
No lies there. He would not be lenient in training and Henrik Cassel was a fine knight.

Ned mulled over the question shortly before answering:  
“Grandfather, Ser Cassel came with us to kill the deserter, you know.  
He is good with a sword but he doesn’t hide a knife on him anywhere.  
You were a sellsword. You are a fighter, not a knight. You are the best fighter in the north.  
You know all the places to hide a knife. You probably have at least one on you right now.  
That’s what I want to be, so that is someone I need to train with.  
I don’t want to be the knight that protects Bran’s honor when he becomes Warden in the North.  
I want to be the fighter that stops the next deserter before he thinks of pulling a knife.  
I want to protect my pack. I can kill other knights without the title.”

“Don’t speak lightly of killing, boy. It is not something to trifle with.  
I will not train a child how to take a life that does not respect the act, no matter how good he can swing a sword.”  
Rodrik saw a small flicker of surprise hush over Ned’s eyes, but not at the refusal.  
No, he did not even look convinced by it and he made to speak again. Before a word left his mouth Rodrik cut in.  
“Do not test me, boy. I will not train you. Ask Brandon how I had his hide tanned when he did not accept my refusal.  
I know you learn quick, child, so learn from your brother’s folly.”

“Rickard did not tell you.” It was no question; it was a statement.  
Queer as well, there seemed no connection to the topic.  
There was a glimmer of confusion and slight amusement in Ned’s eyes. He would need to learn to conceal it better.  
For all his stony face and calm mien, Ned’s eyes were the window to his soul and the window was quite open.  
“Rickard did not kill the deserter after Mother died. I did.”

Rodrik stared in silence. A little in shock, too.  
Rickard would not allow this without reason, Ned must have been quite convincing.  
Probably the steel in his eyes showing through.

“After Mother’s neck was pierced, Ser Cassel cut of the man’s fingers and he dropped his knife.  
Ser Cassel held his head on the chopping block while mother spoke her last words.  
When Rickard made to cut off the head with Ice I stopped him.  
Then I took the deserter’s knife and with it, I took the deserter’s life.”  
Ned’s voice did not tremble while recounting the murder of his mother and the execution of the deserter.  
Seeing Rodrik in silence, Ned turned around and went to leave, satisfied with the impact of his words.

“Wait, pup. Why do you not try to convince me to train you again?”  
Such a peculiar child. Rodrik knew he would cave in right there if Ned asked again. Ned knew that as well, obviously.

“I already have.” Smug satisfaction radiating of him, the little rascal turned for but a short moment to regard his grandfather.  
Rodrik’s annoyance and respect at his middle grandson rose simultaneously.  
“I need to wake up Ben and Lya. They need to be told that mother loves them.  
I know you will find me later to tell me you will teach me. I will be waiting, grandfather.  
I think you need to have a talk with Rickard.”

Ned turned and left the room. And he was right. Rodrik would teach him. But first, he needed to have that talk with Rickard.


	3. Rodrik II / Winterfell / 270 AC

Rickard had to be cornered in his solar when Rodrik went to talk to him about Lyarra.

“You know, I always thought little Ned did not have the wolf’s blood. I was wrong, oh how wrong I was.  
Lyarra had just died, Ned wiped off his tears and willed himself to stop crying.  
I was lifting Ice up in the air and his little voice cut through the air:  
_‘Father’_ , he said, _let me do it.’_  
Of course I refused. But then he spoke again.”

His nephew’s, his good son’s voice broke. 

“ _‘Rickard, let me do it. Mother protected me. I want to look him in the eyes.’_ My son has not called me father since.  
His eyes were pure steel, still red from the tears, but angry and hurt and hard and so wild.  
Brandon might always be wild, but that was the first time with Ned and in him the wildness is so much more and so much more raw.  
A sea of wolf’s blood, kept under a tight lid. He will be the most dangerous of them all when he grows up.

It broke my heart when he called me Rickard and it breaks every time he does.  
And it broke my heart and it made me so proud when he picked up the knife at his mother’s feet and walked to the deserter on the chopping block.  
He wiped the knife clean, almost reverently, his mother’s blood still fresh and wet on the blade.  
He was so tender and careful with the knife, until not a speck of red could be glimpsed at it.  
Then he looked to the deserter and his grip on the knife tightened instantly.  
No more tender care, now it was just an instrument to be used. I offered him Ice.

You know what he said to me? He said  
_‘Father, Ice is too big for me to hold. He would suffer._  
You told us when you taught us hunting, when I shot my first hare.  
You said when we give death, it is out of necessity. Animals are to be brought down quickly.  
I saw the wisdom in it then and I do so now. I think it never applied better to any other animal than the one I see before me.’

And then he walked right past me and regarded the deserter coldly and quietly for a second.  
He always was so quiet; I would have never dreamed of him to be so eloquent.  
I even thought he was shy. Now I recognize he was just cognizant and observant instead.  
He will need a teacher to hone his intelligence, I know that now. 

Then, suddenly, the spell was broken, the calculating look of him faded and he lifted the knife.  
I only need to close my eyes to see it again.  
I know our master-at-arms has had a nightmare of Ned since then, he confided in me.

Ned held the deserter’s head up by his hair, not gently but not unnecessarily brutal.  
Just cold and unflinching and calculating like his eyes. In the calmest, most stable voice he sentenced the man:

_‘In the name of Aerys of the House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, second son to the Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die. I sentence you to die in his name for deserting the Night’s Watch.  
In my own name and the names of Brandon and Lyanna and Benjen Stark I sentence you to die for killing our mother Lyarra Stark and robbing us of her laughter and her ire. May the old gods judge you in my name. You will not be remembered.’_

Then he slit the man’s throat, his hand steadfast and his eyes holding the man’s gaze until the deserter’s eyes broke.  
My voice would not have been as stable and definitely not my blade. He executed the man better than I could have in that moment.”  
Rickard paused again, caught in the memory. 

Rodrik noticed that he had been holding his breath. Gods, his hands were sweaty.  
He had not felt trepidation like that in a long time. And all that for his little grandson, a boy of seven.

Rickard set to continue:  
“After the deed was done all tension left Ned. He slumped and crumbled into himself.  
He turned to Lyarra and tenderly pulled her hair out of her face, cradling it and bawling his eyes out.  
He was repeating _‘I promise. I promise.’_ in a whispers between sobs until we wrenched Lyarra free from his grasp.”

The silence between the Warden of the North and his good father was deafening.  
When Rodrik broke it his speech almost came out sluggish and raw, as if the gods wished the world to remain in a sombre quiet.  
“What did he promise my little girl?”

Rickard stopped looking through him and his eyes focused to match Rodrik’s stare.  
“He promised to protect the pack.”


	4. Rodrik III / Winterfell / 270 AC

Rodrik found Ned playing hide and seek with his siblings in the gods wood.  
He had obviously spotted little Ben in his hiding space, perched on one of the lower brances of an old ironwood tree. Ned made the utmost effort to search every other place around but that one tree.  
Ben’s face of pure delight and Ned’s of deep smiles stirred something within Rodrik. He reckoned most seven year olds would expose their brothers straight away, more concerned with their own fun than that of their sibling.  
He kept watching as Ned continued not 'finding' little Ben for minutes until, finally, he loudly exclaimed that his brother was just too good at hiding.  
Little Ned dramatically and loudly resigned himself to never finding his little brother again. Rodrik thought he laid it on a little thick when Ned said he would offer up his desert tonight to the old gods if only his brother would return to him.

But it worked. Benjen, happy as a clam, revealed himself to Ned and assured him his after-dinner sweets were not in danger.  
For little baby Benjen few things held the importance of sugary delights and of course he did not want his brother to lose his.  
However, he did ask —very innocently of course— if he could have half of Ned's dessert that night.  
After all, Ned was about to lose a whole peace of lemon cake just now if Ben had not stepped forth. Ned displayed an exaggerated thinking face for a second, than he slowly convinced his little brother into helping him find Lyanna.  
This did not prove very difficult as Benjen quickly stumbled upon his sister. Or rather, Ned nudged Benjen subtly towards Lyanna’s hiding place and thanked him profusely when Benjen _‘found’_ Lyanna for him.  
It was heartwarming.

Rodrik had seen enough and approached the three kids. Immediately, Ned’s head turned towards his direction.  
Not with an abrupt snap of the neck, but slowly and steadily as not to alert his siblings.  
Just for a short second his grandson’s irises narrowed slightly before he turned towards his sister smiling:  
“Look, our favorite grandpa came to play with us. You two hide and I keep him for a second. You’re better at hiding than me anyways.” 

Rodrik could think of no other person than Lyarra to ever carry as much kindness in their eyes as Ned did in that moment when he looked as his brother and sister.

Ned whispered a short _‘Let’s talk later’_ before extolling about the deviousness of his siblings and asking Rodrik for his help in finding them for he could not do so on his own.  
For the next two hours Rodrik and Ned searched the Wolfswood time and time again for the two littlest of Starks.  
Given the opportunity to observe, Rodrik noted Ned’s calm awareness for his siblings and the entire vicinity,  
masked by his fake bumbling through the woods in a fake search for the two.  
He had not played a lot with his grandkids like this and but now noticed he quite liked it.  
When Ned loudly gave up on finding his sibling that were _‘better at hiding than the children of the forest’_ ,  
Lyanna fell out of the woods right behind his back in a giggling fit, evoking smiles to light up her big brother’s face.  
After Benjen came out from his hiding space as well to see what had his sister in stitches, Lyanna slowly caught herself before turning to Ned.

“Isn’t it time for our dancing lessons, dearest Ned? You can continue not finding us again tomorrow”, her eyes twinkled,  
“I tire of not moving while waiting for you to not find us!”

Rodrik could believe that, he had never seen a more active kid than little Lya.  
But still, he didn’t know they had a tutor to teach them dancing.  
He also knew that Lyanna hated all the womanly arts. When did she take a fancy to dancing?


	5. Rodrik IV / Winterfell / 270 AC

Never would Rodrik have believed that the children's dancing tutor was to be Old Nan.  
More surprisingly, Ned himself was instructing his little siblings on the proper forms as well.  
When the dancing began it was obvious that while Lyanna found a womanly art she could enjoy, the most passionate dancer of the bunch was Ned.  
Not outwardly passionate of course, for that was not his way.  
Instead, his characteristic intensity became less solemn and more focused, peppered with small smiles as he moved with the rhythm.

And for a long time they danced, wild and free.  
First the Wolf’s Step, then the Snow Fox’s Trot and finally the Bear’s Ballet.  
Wild and free and happy.  
Old Nan was singing to them, Jenny of Oldstones and Brave Danny Flint and The Bear and the Maiden Fair, herself partnering up with Ben while Ned was spinning around his sister.  
When Nan couldn’t sing anymore Ned’s voice rose up and after the singer kept changing until they were all out of breath, lying on the ground and smiling.  
Ned approached Nan after some time and when Lya had caught her breath again she sang again, melodious and full of soul.

Rodrik watched on as Nan and Ned danced, slowly at first with their stances changing and changing, going into more complicated figures with every line that Lya sang and increasing the pace all the while.  
Nan was whispering through it all, quietly, instructing Ned on how to lead her, where to put his foot next and how to more smoothly transition from one step into another.  
Ned showed an impressive sense of balance and a surety to his steps that belied his time spent dancing, odd for a boy of his age who should be showing more interest in swords and shields instead of womanly arts.  
They danced for hours until supper, Lya and Ben entertained and enchanted by just watching Ned as he danced.  
Rodrik followed them with a bemused smile playing on his lips all the time, watching his grandchildren having the happiest of times, as if their mother hadn’t died recently.

Lya and Ben obviously had Ned to thank for remaining so carefree, the little boy keeping them occupied and happy through the whole day.  
Had he been doing that every day since Lyarra died? Only on Ned could Rodrik see short glimpses of melancholy, flitting across his eyes, leaving as quickly as they came.

When Ned tucked them in at night he pressed a tender kiss to Lya's and Ben's foreheads and whispered:  
“Mother loves you and is watching over you right now, waiting to see you in your dreams in a second.”

Rodrik felt his eyes going moist. He loved his family, his pack, just like every Stark;  
but he could not think of any other person with the same depth and tenderness in their love towards their siblings like little Ned was showing.

When they slowly and silently closed the door on the sleeping children it was startling still to see Ned’s transformation into a more tense and more expressively aware person within instants.  
Ned turned to Rodrik and his expression was not smug in recognition of his grandfather’s intent but solemn in expectation of a serious conversation.  
Rodrik kept being caught unawares by the many facets of his seven-year-old grandson.

“Grandfather, thank you for indulging Ben and Lya with me.  
Rickard does not have the time and they miss mother.  
I can’t always keep their thoughts occupied through the whole day.  
Now I believe you mean to question me before you formally agree to train me.”

The boy would need to learn not to show his perceptiveness.  
It helped, but it would make enemies that mistook his direct way for insolence.

“Yes Ned, I do have questions for you. But first I must tell you, I am proud of you.  
The way you help your siblings through this difficult time shows you are a strong man already.  
I will be honored to train you. Your answers to my questions will not change that.  
It’s just, since I talked with you earlier today, you have surprised me constantly. Good surprises, but surprises nonetheless.  
And as I will train you into the best fighter I need to know your capabilities to train you efficiently.  
Now, the first question because I am curious, why dancing? You love it quite obviously, too, don’t you think dancing is more for girls?”

There was a brief eternity of silence as Ned, for the first time today, showed the look of a seven-year-old boy who had recently watched his world shatter before his eyes.

Then, slowly and quietly, his grandson answered:  
“Mother loved dancing. When I was young I saw her dance with Fa- Rickard. Often. Happily. Radiant.  
It wasn’t for Brandon, he did not like to be constrained by the rhythm and the few forms he could grasp in an hour.  
You know how he is, he stumbled over his feet a few times and stormed off to train with Ser Cassel.  
So Mother danced with me. She was happy to dance with me and she was happy that I came to share her passion for dancing.  
I never told here I came to share that same passion because seeing her be so happy made me happy. Now I feel closest to her when dancing.”

Rodrik watched as Ned unravelled, all tension leaving his body. Tears stream down his face, flowing in streams unnoticed.  
Ned continued talking through it, not a single cry interrupting his speech:

“Benjen and Lya see Mother in their dreams now. I don’t. I see the deserter.  
A crow that turns into a rat that bites a wolf protecting her pup, me. And the rat is so big.  
The wolf mother dies and the pup grows and, starting with his heart, the whole beast turns into ice.  
Then the winter wolf devours the rat and turns back into a pup. The rat though, it comes back and it laughs and laughs, mocking and spiting.  
And the pup howls to drown out that ugly, cackling laughter.

I don’t sleep well. I want Mother back. I envy Lya. I envy Ben. How can I envy them?  
They will never have the four years of Mother’s love that I have on them.  
Then I feel ashamed. But all is well when I dance. And I know it is selfish but I want them to love what made mother happy and what makes me happy.”

There was no sound but the winds of winter after that.  
Rodrik had not expected such a stunning revelation to so innocent a question.  
Ned looked spent, drained. Like a dam had broken inside of him.  
His tears had dried now. Rodrik felt the need to let the silence play its course. He only stretched out his arms and buried Ned within them, keeping him warm and safe. 

They sat like this for a long time until Rodrik noticed that Ned had fallen into a deep, calm sleep.


	6. Ned II / Winterfell / 270 AC

The sun woke him up. He felt rested like he had not felt in a long time.  
His grandfather was there, right next to his bed with a book on his lap. Yesterday was all coming back to him now.   
The dancing. Tucking in Lya and Ben. The embrace and the surety all would be alright, that he could unwind.   
That he was safe.  
And he was. The deserter had not come tonight.   
The little pup had danced with the mother wolf all night and his heart had not turned to ice.

“You’re up. Good. This is the only day you will not be in the training yard with me by dawn.   
Starting tomorrow I expect you to run rounds around Winterfell until you are out of breath and arrive at the shooting stand when the sun peeks over the horizon.  
I see you have questions. I did not ask mine yesterday. A question for a question, we’ll take turns. I’ll start.   
Did the rat visit you in your dreams?”  
The stare of his grandfather was hard but not unkind. Especially when he posed his question did the affection shine through.

“No.  
I danced with Mother for the entire night. We were wolves. When the world was getting faint she told me she loves me. Then I woke up. I feel happy.”  
Ned shortly pondered over what question to ask first but in the end, practicality won out.  
“What will you teach me?”

“You are in good shape. You played and danced for hours yesterday. Dancing gave you a good fluidity in your movements and a balance that is hard to achieve.   
I am impressed by that. But fighting needs a different set of muscles, a different kind of strength.   
So for now you will run every morning. When you are a little more grown you will run with armor and weights.   
We don’t want to stunt your growth.”  
Rodrik snapped his book shut to emphasize that point. His manner was calm and controlled, everything about him seemed so concise in that moment.  
“The first and most important thing I will teach you is how to stay alive. Training your body will help you with that.   
You are already aware of your surroundings at all times. That is a good thing.   
However, I easily noticed it and everyone else older than your siblings will notice you being hyperaware, too. That is not a good thing.   
You are not allowed to show that you are aware. That will make others underestimate you.

The route you are running in the morning will pass through the underbrush of the wolfswood.   
Daily exposure and awareness training will make a certain vigilance become second nature to you. That way you will appear more nonchalant and relaxed while alert. 

While you learn how to survive you also will learn how not to get killed.   
You will learn evading anything and everything I throw at you at any time. Is that clear?”

Rodrik paused, obviously waiting for a reaction from Ned. After a curt nod he continued:  
"Finally I will teach you how to kill. There will be little fanciful fighting involved.   
The most important thing when killing is to not hesitate and giving your opponent a chance at killing you first.   
I don’t need to teach you that, apparently. 

The second most important thing is range. Therefore, you will be trained to kill at all ranges.   
You will learn to kill with bow and arrow.   
You will learn to kill with throwing knives.   
You will learn to kill with a polearm of your choice.   
You will learn to kill with a sword, accompanied by offhand-dagger and shield.   
You will learn to kill with knives in close combat. You will learn to kill with your fists.   
Finally, you will learn to apply your skills in killing on foot and on horseback and. If we have the time, on ship as well.   
If you are good enough at controlling the range, you will never have use of any proficiency you acquire except mounted archery.   
The rest are… contingencies. Nevertheless, I will make you excel in all five of them.

My turn to question. Why do you call your father Rickard? It hurts him.”

“I don’t do it to hurt him.”   
The pause in Ned’s speech had a hint of finality to it. After a contemplative second, however, Ned went to elaborate.   
“I don’t blame him for the deserter’s actions. For the cut of the blade.   
I have forgiven father that mother has died. But…   
– I haven’t forgiven that she is dead... I think. Does that make sense?”  
A short, mirthless laughter escaped him. A shrill thing, a little cackling.   
Not something he had ever done before. Not something, Ned realized, a child should have in them. 

“I know one thing. Something broke between us, father and me. Something broke in me.   
My father should have the ability to protect me and my mother.   
A father should have the ability to protect his children after their mother died.   
I don’t trust in that anymore with Rickard.”   
Another short pause. Regretful, this one, seeking to be filled. 

A dull, forlorn yet wistful feeling overcame Ned.   
Realization, he knew it to be, of a feeling he had not been able to put his finger on since his mother died.   
The air grew heavy, oppressing. Not frightening, just so unfathomably filled with sorrow.   
To break this – the sorrow, the silence – Ned had to vocalize what stood in it, unsaid yet, but obvious as it must be to him and the world.  
“I do not trust Rickard anymore. With my brothers, with my sister. With myself. 

Maybe someday I can call him father again. I hope so. But for that, time will need to pass.   
He has apologized. He is sorry. Bu the needs to repent. As for me….   
I will need to… It’s not heal. I need to unbreak. Reforge myself, stronger, harder and better.   
Because if I don’t trust the head of my family to protect my pack I need to do it myself.”

And it was silence again, but this one felt just free and suddenly without burdens. A silence he liked. So Ned lingered in the silence before asking his question:  
“I don’t want to have time for thinking today anymore, Grandfather.   
So I ask of you, can we start training right now hard enough to give me no room for thoughts and exhausted enough afterwards to leave me asleep as soon as we are done?”

After a long look Rodrik grunted in assent. “Aye, pup. Questions later.”  
Suddenly, the Wandering Wolf stood taller. Straighter. More aggressive.   
“Maybe something within you broke. I like your will to reforge yourself.   
But to do that, you are the wrong kind of broken. First, we will need to break your body. Your training begins now.” 

The grandfather gave a wolfish grin, steeped in discipline and trained in battles.  
The grandson returned a wolfish grin, lacking in experience but with an unsettling, unrestrained hunger.


	7. Rickard I / Winterfell / 270 AC

Seeing his son being brutalized in the training yard should have been agonizing. It definitely was for the boy. But the feelings that Rickard should have felt were now blunted, muted compared to before all the world lost its luster.  
Ned’s training was harsh, too harsh for a small boy, but every time he was beaten down he rose up and went at it again.  
Still there was a method to the madness Rodrik was inflicting on the boy, Rickard could see that. 

First Rodrik built up Ned’s endurance, had done so for a few months, before instructing the boy on how to fight.  
Now every morning Rickard woke up to see his son running circles around the castle, becoming leaner and wirier with time. Apparently the boy woke earlier every morning because to be exhausted by sun up was getting more and more difficult for him.

Food before the runs, food after the runs. Then dodging and evasion, a particularly difficult thing to teach.  
Not for the teacher, of course, Rodrik was highly amused the whole time he was throwing pebbles at Ned while the boy had to progress along certain martial forms that bred familiarity with the movements at a pace Rodrik set for him. A training so brutal in its efficiency it was almost cruel.

Beside the warrior training the little boy was trained to be a general as well.  
Usually, whenever his time with the Second Sons came up in talks Rodrik would deflect. It was apparent, however, that his good father was no mere foot soldier across the narrow and the tales that still resonated about the Wandering Wolf were fearsome indeed.

By now the evasion training was over and Rodrik pulled out his blasted Essosi game that he treasured so much, cyvasse or something. Rickard could never see the appeal but every day, unflinchingly, Rodrik and Eddard played a few games. The first games were pitifully short but Rodrik remarked to him that Ned never made the same mistake twice and was a natural with strategy, tactics and books. 

So books Ned was forced to read when their combat training ended after the cyvasse games. After cycling through multiple weapons, spears, swords, daggers, hands, sometimes blunt maces and seldomly random tools, they stopped hitting each other and started hitting the books.  
‘History of the Rhoynish Wars’, Rodrik’s keepsake from his time in Norvos and ‘Engines of War’ out of their own library were the starting point. Treaties on strategy and battlefield deployment followed. Military exercises and mind games all the time, stretching for days. An education more fit for a Tarly, almost, though Rickard doubted even they tortured their progeny so thoroughly in all matters of war.

And even that wasn’t all, besides preparing for war little Ned soaked up information about everything he could find, from legends to language.  
His books on math somehow gave him inspiration with his archery training which came after his time in the library. How could any seven-year-old read and train so much? 

It would be lying to say he did nothing else because every day still he went riding and dancing with his siblings but even that became part of the training itself.  
He was almost as smooth a rider now as Lyanna and if any person was ever born to ride it was his little she wolf.  
And how Old Nan even knew the Old Tongue she was teaching Ned now was a mystery but that was the only way they talked while they danced, according to Benjen.

In fighting, if not in strength, Ned by now outclassed even his older brother but his Eddard never seemed to lose his drive.  
Brandon, that idiot, instead of trying to train like his brother should rather try to read like him, preferably something more practical than ‘Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell’.

Pulling himself away from the ballustrade overlooking the court yard, Rodrik had to remind himself that the keep had to be seen to. The maester was not for long now and already had asked for his successor to be informed and sent for from Oldtown.  
Rickard had already taken up correspondence with the next one, a bastard by the name of Walys. But then, maesters never carry their names after they take up their chain so bastardy was a lesser taint with them.  
Still, this Walys had some interesting ideas, so much could already be seen in his letters. He should be arriving in a few weeks at White Harbor and even before then Ned could be sent to be fostered at the Eyrie.

First indications had been made to his old brother-in-arms Jon that one of his sons may be sent to be his ward and to strengthen southern ties. A good counsel from Walys, that.  
A small part of Rickard told him he just couldn’t stomach being called by his name by little Ned anymore. There always was that accusing look, too. 

Rodrik disagreed, of course. By now Eddard could do no wrong in the man’s eyes.  
Well, the wardship was not yet set in stone, so a talk was to be had with Rodrik and Ned about it later.

Rickard made his way to his solar preparing for the shouting match that was bound to start with his son and good father when he laid out his plans.

He would not let a boy as sharp as Ned become brittle from only learning the northern ways. Or let himself break anymore with the daily reminder of his Lyarra that his son was becoming to be.


	8. Ned III / Winterfell / 270 AC

Ned felt the slight burn of his exerted muscle recede into a comfortable ache in the warm water of Winterfell’s hot springs. It was good pain that he felt, not the excruciating fire that tormented his muscles at the beginning of his endurance training. He was still not allowed to wear armor during his runs but now his new boots were weighted so he could at least get used to more difficult running conditions.

Hand-to-hand combat was always the most painful of exercises as Rodrik showed him more uncomfortable pressure points, locks, twists and techniques than he would ever be able to apply. It was therefore the last part of combat training before hitting the books. Still, seeing as every other person thought a punch in a bar brawl accounted for all the needed finesse without weapons, his advantage was already staggering. Now he only needed to grow into his budding skills.

Blissful quiet surrounded him now with few distractions, only the comfortable bubbling of the water provided welcome relieve for his mind and body after hours of exercise and learning. Rodrik was also of the opinion that the hot baths were the perfect cure for his strained muscles, helping Ned advance in his training at a higher pace than anticipated.  
From Ned’s perspective it just meant Rodrik could hurt him more every day as he recovered faster. Wohoo…

It had become a part of his strict routine to soak at the mineral pools for some time before his leisure time started as his loosened muscles were perfect for the smooth movements dancing required of him.

Already he could hear footsteps coming from the heart tree, probably Lya again. She always picked him up here so they could start their dancing lessons, herself taking to the activity more and more.  
Sometimes, he thought to just float away here, letting the damp air cloud him for a few hours of unrestrained nothingness, free from thoughts.  
But his mind had to be occupied, he understood that now. Left idle, it would still return to that day and his wolf mother did not come to play with him when he slept in any other state than deep exhaustion.

Lya had stopped at the pool by now but had not physically attacked him yet, to stop him from dozing off and leave to go dance with her and Ben. Odd.  
A short glance revealed it was not Lya but grandfather that was standing over him. How that man stepped around as softly as a little girl Ned would need to learn sometime.  
“Your father wants us to attend to him at his solar, pup.”

Surprising, that. Ever since mother had died there had been precious little contact with Rickard. Sure, the routine of meals and talks were somewhat unavoidable in a keep and in a small family but both of them seemed to form a silent agreement to comfortably ignore each other mostly. The pain was still fresh.  
There must be something important if Rickard had especially invited him up. Ned, despite trying to remain indifferent, couldn’t help a little anticipation building, together with resignation.  
Maybe Rickard was warming up to him a little again. Or to anyone, really. Even Lya and Ben had noticed Rickard becoming colder and colder to them and of course that did not escape Ned.  
Because, despite all, he still loved his remaining parent. He wasn’t so sure if that went both ways still or if loving hurt Rickard too much now.

Rising from the water Ned dried himself off before turning to Rodrik.  
“No matter what he wants to talk about, do you think we should bring up the Moat, grandfather?”  
That line of thinking had been born from the many lessons on strategy.  
Not that any problems in the south concerned them here, usually. But who could say what it would look like in ten years when Ned would leave Winterfell to become a lord in his own right?  
The north was secure, the Wall saw to that, but the south did not have a contingency, a deterrent for troubles in place.

Moat Cailin was the most important strategic location of the whole continent and it had fallen in gross disrepair.  
You did not need a seven-year-old military advisor to see that, everyone knew it and it had been a passionate topic of Rodrik’s for years.  
Maybe Rickard could even get funds from the King for it, Aerys seemed to love grand projects like that. It was definitely more feasible to rebuild the Moat than to irrigate Dorne or to raise a second Wall and would win him the love of the North. Though the hand would have to be convinced as well.  
Then again, if you shit gold, how difficult could it be to convince you to spend a little more?

“It might be a good occasion for that, Ned”, Rodrik replied while pondering the subject, “though are you sure a holdfast at the harbor across Flint’s Finger is not better?  
We have talked about this, you could increase trade through the Sunset Sea for the North. A good life.” At that, Rodrik almost seemed wistful.

Of course, being part Flint, Ned would be openly welcomed on the peninsula. Lyarra might have hailed from the branch in the mountains but still all Flints looked fondly on the grandchildren of the Wandering Wolf. Everyone of them still remembered the burning love between Rodrik and Arya and their fondness of their big family across the North.

“No, I think I’ll leave Benjen to grow fat and wealthy when he’s old”, Ned had to laugh at the image.  
“I’ll guard the Neck for them. It’s a good purpose and Mother would see how happy we all can be, with us each finding our own happiness in what we do.  
We would only need to convince Rickard to foster Lya at Bear Island, heh.”

Rodrik had to chuckle at that, too. Thinking of little Lya taking command of a castle and ordering the guards around on her whims like an army of Benjens was just too easy a thing.

“Alright, the Moat it is then. How long have you been stuck with that decision now?”

“Remember when I asked Nan to teach me the Old Tongue?  
I mean, I just thought she’s old and the language is called Old Tongue, I thought all old people would speak it amongst themselves and I wanted to know it, too.  
Who better to learn from then the oldest person I know?  
I asked her to teach me after I knew that Moat Cailin would be the place for me. After all, the crannogmen still use the Old Tongue and they will be my closest neighbors down there.  
Old Nan just laughed at me for asking because she’s old and then she just started talking in it and calling me _‘leathcheann’_ all the time.  
Now I know that means idiot so I’ve been upgraded to _‘mac tíre óg’_.”

“You know, _‘young wolf’_ , I could teach you as well”, Rodrik pressed out between heaving gasps.  
“After all, my wife comes from the mountain tribes. Besides the Neck and Skagos, the mountains are the only place you’ll need the Old Tongue for south of the Wall.”

“Great, grandfather, another subject for you to bury me with.  
I’m fine with it but please don’t give me a huge book of legends written in the damn thing yet. I’ve only been learning to speak; I haven’t started with the runes yet.”

“Alright, pup. I’ll ease you into it. I know you can already hold short conversations in it, the runes will be the easiest thing you’ll ever learn from me. But that’s all for tomorrow.  
For now, let’s see what your father wants to talk about.”


	9. Rodrik V / Winterfell / 270 AC

Why did all solars have to be in the upper level of a tower?  
Surely, a lord could just as well conduct their business from a room on the ground or first floor.  
Not that it was a physical challenge for him, at 44 Rodrik was still more than well enough to climb to the ninth floor of the Great Keep, but it just didn’t scream efficiency as his military mind demanded.  
There was just no need to appear imposing during the day to day business of the castle and especially not towards family. Rickard must have made an important choice regarding little Ned’s life, otherwise there was no need for all this procedure.

The little one was not even winded as they reached the door to the solar even at the brisk pace Rodrik had set, evidence to the success of the endurance training.  
The weighted boots had been an especially vicious touch, Rodrik had to smother a grin at the thought. Maybe it was time to add some heavier greaves to the routine, those should not diminish Ned’s growth and increase the challenge for the runs a little. Something to think about.

There was a slight pause after his knock on the door and no answer seemed to be coming to beg them enter. Rickard apparently wanted to set the tone for the meeting early and establish a position of power for himself. Foolish pup, there was no such power to behold in a conversation in the family that the Wandering Wolf would broker to pass, especially from his good son.  
Maybe Rickard was returning to his old power plays that Lyarra had kept in check. As long as he did not revisit his folly of grander ambitions for the North within the Seven Kingdoms all was well and those had also luckily been kept at bay by his daughter.  
Lyarra…

Rodrik swiftly entered, partially to forego Rickard’s overdue invitation and partially to keep himself from lingering on his beloved daughter.  
A short scowl was apparent on Rickard’s face but gone quickly, obviously discontent with Rodrik’s lack of respect in front of Ned.  
Strange, they were family, even since Lyarra’s death Rickard had not seemed as rigid like just now. Was it connected to the increased correspondence that was leaving with the ravens?

His face a blank mask again Rickard quickly took his seat and indicated with a nod for his good father and son to follow.  
His desk between them was neat and almost empty, the majority of his daily duties having been resolved already it seemed. With a quick and almost stocky grab Rickard opened a drawer and pulled out a letter, shortly checking its content as he made to speak.

“Ned, in my hand I have a confirmation to my request from my friend Lord Arryn of the Eyrie that he is willing to foster you starting with your eighth name day.  
Do you have any question towards this arrangement?”

Blinking once, twice, Rodrik turned to see little Ned in a state of silence different to what he was used to.  
It was always astonishing what one could read into Ned’s silences, he could say more through them than most people could through talking incessantly for hours.  
This one started as a silent mix of shock and befuddlement, but now it was turning through a small shift in Ned’s face, reflecting despondence and powerless rage.  
If Rodrik didn’t know better, it almost seemed as if his thoroughly unflappable grandson was thoroughly flapped. That did not bode well for Rickard.

After getting his scowl under control again Ned’s anger was only betrayed by his hard eyes, set in a face as blank a mask as his father’s. Composed again the little one made to speak:  
“Aye. I do have a few questions. Lord Stark.” And Rickard’s mask broke for a second to show an utterly broken man beneath.  
Cold was Ned’s voice and dark as the black ice on Long Lake from the summer frosts; this was not a conversation Rodrik saw anyone sitting at this table enjoying.

Through all the questions regarding the logistics and the time line of his fostering Ned treated his father differently, not just colder but detached, like a stranger you owe nothing more than politeness and cautionary respect.  
There was no sliver of hate that could be glanced from Ned’s behavior, only cold hard apathy. That, in every way, was the worst direction the relationship between father and son could have been able to develop.  
Hate would have been preferable to this severance of the relationship between the two, now so utterly devoid of any feeling. There was no way this betrayal of trust would ever let Ned return to loving his Rickard the way he did before Lyarra’s death.  
Within the span of a breath and with a single sentence Rickard had just made his second son lose a father.

After the discussion on Ned’s future for the next decade Rickard was concluded in a way that two merchants may discuss the price of a grain shipment Rodrik saw something stir within his good son, maybe an ounce of regret, maybe an ounce of remorse, maybe an ounce of shame.  
Whatever it was it spurred Rickard to ask the only question that could maybe salvage him and his son from becoming strangers:  
“Son. You are apprehensive. You are angry. You are unhappy.  
I would like your personal thoughts on this arrangement. Speak harshly. Rant. Scream at me.  
I have plans for you but I do not want to condemn my children to misery. I do believe this will help you become a good man and help foster a deeper relationship with the Vale.  
Surely you can see the importance of that. It will strengthen the whole North.  
If you have a better idea to improve relations with the south, I will heed your advice.”

It was now Ned’s turn to crack, and he did so, almost like the time when Rodrik held him after the death of Ned’s mother. Almost.  
He caught himself just before he crumbled and straightened his posture again but the weight of the world did not leave Ned’s shoulders.  
He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, arranging the words in his head to impact his father like a war hammer. Rodrik knew, the boy’s tells were now obvious to him. Whatever he would say would be coldly eloquent and scorchingly destructive.  
“I don’t know a better way to foster relations with the south. I don’t see the need. We have been left to our devices since Torrhen bend the knee, isolated like Dorne in all but name.  
We are our own kingdom and nobody gives a shit what the Targaryen in Kings Landing says.  
But, therefore, you are my king as well as the head of my family.  
If you see the need to improve relations with the south I will obey your command. I don’t know a better way to deal with the south but I already know more about the North than Brandon does and I could have been his best advisor. You are taking that from me.  
But all that does not matter. I recognize your authority to bargain me away to wherever you see fit. I will obey. But I ask a boon of you, for tearing me from my brothers and sisters.”

A pregnant pause. The boy was good. Really good, no denying it. Rickard was not voicing his respect but Rodrik could see it in his eyes. His good son inclined his head, a glimmer of pride in his eyes, motioning Ned to continue.  
“Rebuild Moat Cailin for me. If we increase relations with the south we won’t be able to avoid enemies there.  
If I am to be the herald to make us friends below the neck let me also be the bulwark to guard our enemies should the time come that we need it.  
If you spin King Aerys a pretty tale that the Moat has more significance to the North than a second Wall and rebuilding it will leave his name in our songs his vanity will make him pay for it.  
He will command Tywin Lannisters to turn ass in hour direction so that enough gold comes our way.”

Rickard was obviously impressed, even thoughtful, and responded earnestly after a second:  
“Your suggestion has merit. It will be done.  
However, you still did not voice your opinion on the arrangement with Lord Arryn.”

Ned looked at Rickard strangely, maybe not daring to voice his thoughts. He did— and bitterly said the words that would leave his father somber until Ned would leave him:  
“I only have your words for you, Stark words.  
_‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’_  
You have just condemned me to be the lone wolf; south of the Neck where Starks go to die.  
I will take my leave. Father.”

And he did, leaving the solar without so much as a _‘by your leave’_.  
To Rodrik the last word had such an edge of finality to it that he did not doubt that it was to be the last time that he heard his grandson call his good son father. Time would prove him right.


	10. Rodrik VI / Winterfell / 270 AC

Silence was what Eddard Stark brought with him wherever he went and silence was what he left behind.  
After the door closed behind him Rickard looked frozen in time, more than stupefied but less than catatonic. The quiet in Ned’s wake carried on for a little while Rodrik was just observing his good son sitting in complete stillness.  
Rickard looked miserable and defeated. Even if Rodrik could not help a small part of himself blaming Rickard for Lyarra’s death he was fond of him and never wanted Rickard to become… this.

A small sigh escaped Rodrik, breaking Rickard out of his stupor. “The pup is right, in part at least. You know that, don’t you, son?”  
Seldom before had the application rolled of his tongue so easily, Rodrik noted. They were both united in grief. Rickard did not respond.  
“Of course, he doesn’t even recognize that the best point he made was simply overshadowed by his accusation in the end. You probably don’t recognize it either, despondent as you are right now and with your disdain for the wolf blood we all carry. You look like you don’t even remember what he said beside the word of the pack. The most important thing was not his emotional outburst, Rickard.  
It was this: The Vale is not the right place to raise Eddard. He would become an Andal there in all but name.”

“Why?”, Rickards voice as he replied was hoarse from unshed tears, held back so long that the wells dried up, “why is the Vale the wrong place to raise him? He would learn of bravery, leadership and honor.”

“Exactly. And those qualities are important, but taught in the wrong way they will make him a stranger to the ways of the North. So let’s not pretend that the upbringing of little Ned asan honorable man is your intent, you want more power in the south. Don’t give me those other platitudes.  
Ned will win you the loyalty of the Vale, he has that effect on people. You know that and that is why you want to send him there. But they will spoil him to our ways at the Eyrie.”

“Convince me better. My point still stands; he will learn of honor. There is no place more famed for it than the Vale and I trust Lord Arryn to bring my son up to be a good man. But you are right, that is not all that I intend to do in the south with him. Or with his siblings.  
There are other plans I am making as well. The North is the biggest of the Seven Kingdoms, it is high time that we are given our due respect in the south. The next time I go to Kings Landing I don’t want to have an audience only with our charming king but with the ruling lion as well. With the support of House Arryn we will be heard, no other regions are as united behind their Lord Paramount as the North and the Vale are. I am demanding our voice to be heard and to have the influence that should be owed to us.  
We were kings!”  
There was fervor now in Rickard’s voice, an excited tremble. The man probably didn’t even notice his own bursting wolf blood.

“Yes son, we deserve more influence. So now you make to enter the game in the south. But it is a different thing from what you are doing her in the North, played by different rules. The way of the falcons, high as honor, is only suited to the Vale as well.  
The three regions that will fare the worst in the game of thrones at court are the North, the Vale and the Iron Islands. They are too different in that one region is too beholden to the ways of First Men, one is too pure an Andal Kingdom and the last region is too foreign in their worship of the Drowned God. In the Mountains of the Moon honor is the crux of the game, whereas in Kings Landing it is intrigue and cunning.  
That is why the Dornish are such a deft hand at it, even if they joined the game more than 150 years after it started. Their little vipers’ nest is just as vicious as the pit that is Kings Landing so they keep each other sharp. The Reach and the Riverlands are fractured with opposing, equally powerful houses, the way they shape the game at home is the way they shape it in the capital. The Crownland houses are all kissing the Targaryens’ asses anyways and the Storm- and Westerlands’ houses are cowed by their Lords Paramount at the moment so they don’t play. Tywin and Steffon are in good standing with Aerys and don’t need a mutiny at home. Still their subordinate houses are adept at the game as well and are only waiting until they can reenter the big league. Any of those regions has houses that would help you more than the Arryns in influencing the game in the south and in raising Ned.

Where Ned could learn intrigue or cunning with a southern house, the honor that he will take to in the Vale will make him rigid. Brittle. And he will take to it, make no mistake, because their honor is a beautiful thing, a thing to strive for. Beautiful things are killed far more often in Kings Landing than Starks and honoroble men far quicker.  
Nedis still looking for his way since Lyarra died. Jon Arryn is a good man and Ned will come to love him like a father for being a steadfast rock in the whirlpool his life has become. He will take Arryn's honorable ways for his own and that will kill him some day, south or north of the Neck. 

Furthermore, you cannot allow your spare to become unfit to rule the North should anything happen to Brandon. For that will always be what Ned is even if you love him regardless of it, Brandon's spare.  
Never let your spare be incompetent in fear of him threatening your heir in case you need him. We are a pack, we don't threaten each other — but if you allow it, the Vale will ruin your spare!”  
Rodrik’s speech had picked up in pace and volume, he was gulping in air now after almost shouting the last words. He pressed on, quieter again:

“Up here, we live by different rules. Winter is coming.  
It means something else up here because this is a hard place with hard people and so we need to be hard rulers, more honest and more savage than the frivolous and foolish mummers down at the king’s court. You are what we need, Rickard, but you don’t even notice it. And now you are threatening our stability if you let Ned become anything but hard and savage beside just honorable.

Us Starks have ruled the North for 8000 years not despite our wolf blood making us savage but because of it making us the most savage. Not the Red Kings, the Boltons with their cruelty, not the Barrow Kings, the Dustins with their strength, not the Marsh Kings, the Reeds with their deadliness could ever win the North. As you said, we were kings. We were the kings. Kings of Winter.  
We made the North and we held the North and the Northmen will only respect a Stark on the outside and on the inside to rule them. So while Ned will return the most honest man and the most – honorable, gods help us” , here Rodrik emphasized the word honorable, spitting it out like an insult, “he will leave his children with a brittle foundation that the Boltons for sure and at least one other House will try to usurp if it comes to past. Because inside he will repress what a Stark needs to be a Stark.”  
Rodrik was panting in rage now, swallowing his spit back down and glaring at Rickard.

Again there was silence between them, Rodriks breathing slowly settling as Rickard contemplated. After a long sigh Rickard fixed his good father’s eyes and asked the question that would forever change Eddard Stark’s fate:  
“How would you have me raise my – spare, as you call it, in a way that he will still be an adequate advisor to Brandon when he rules the North and at the same time foster good relations with southern houses through him?”

Rodrik mulled the question for a second. “Let me raise him on the road, like Duncan the Tall raised Aegon the Unlikely. You know how the Flints were… unhappy, with me and Arya at the beginning, when I had just returned from Essos and we were madly in love.  
How we traveled all the Seven Kingdoms and brought up Lyarra and Branda to escape her brothers for a time.” Despite himself Rodrik knew there was probably a wistful smile playing on his lips. How it all had changed in hindsight and the Flints now embraced him still.

“We’ve made many friends everywhere. Important ones, too. If we can renew those ties with Ned, us Starks will wield more power through his friendships than ever possible through him fostering in an isolated region. I will return Ned to you a true Northman, a battle-tested fighter and a player in the great game to be wary of.”

Rickard pondered the matter shortly, then confirmed it with an inclination of his head.  
“I will leave him to you. Lord Arryn will be placated when I send him Brandon in a few years for some time, more prestige in raising my heir for a little while than raising my second son for a long time. No reason to lose the connection to the Vale even if your points have merit.  
When will you leave? Give me a short idea of your trip now and I require progress reports along the way so I know where to send ravens next. Anything I should know already?”, Rickard asked.

“We will travel to the Wall first, it will give Ned an imprint forever of what it means to be of the North. Than we travel to Bear Island. Best to let everyone think that he’ll be raised by the Mormonts, they are loyal enough to keep it a secret that we’re gone and no one will travel there to check.  
From there we continue under different names, we can’t have everyone in Westeros knowing of our travels. Maybe we travel under the name Flint again… We’ll make our first stop at Quellon Greyjoy’s, hopefully his sons will continue his course for the Iron Islands. Another lone player we xould bind like the Vale.  
Down the Westerlands from there, probably a longer stay in Oldtown to formulate our plans afterwards. I’ll keep you updated by raven”, Rodrik ruminated, “I would say we leave as planned on Ned’s eighth name day. It’ll give him time to properly say goodbye to Lyanna and little Ben. He’ll miss them. Maybe you can recall Brandon for a good farewell.”

Rickard nodded at that and Rodrik turned to leave, stopping in the door and throwing a last look over his shoulder.  
“Rickard. I will break the news to the pup. I believe it will be good to take him away from Winterfell for a while so he can escape his mother’s ghost. He will grow out of it and thank us in time, even if he will be quietly furious with us for now. The distance will help him heal and it will help your wound scar.  
I know the both of us, however, will never truly heal, never escape from her ghost. You know, we haven’t really talked about her since that day. What do you say, will you get together with me tonight, not to think about her death but to drink to how she lived?”

After a blank stare passed his eyes, Rickard Stark –for the first time since his wife died– had the hint of a smile playing on his lips and his eyes shimmered moist with not-quite tears as he once again inclined his head.


	11. Ned IV / Winterfell / 270 AD

After leaving Rickard’s solar Ned went straight back to the gods wood, this time not to bathe but to pray instead.  
He was not in his right mind, he recognized, as he was leaning against the heart tree for comfort, his head in complete disarray.

He did not care to go to the Eyrie, but what was he to do? It was not like he had any say in the decision and Lord Stark obviously did not care about his opinion.  
The only thing that was left to him was making the best out of the situation and spend as much time with his brother and sister as he could. 

At least the fight training would not be entirely useless, still, he might just end up a proper Vale knight. Not what he was aiming for but probably the best of the worst that could come after his plans with grandfather now fell through.

A good thing of that whole blasted discussion was that Moat Cailin would be his, Lord Stark gave his word. 'A Stark’s word is his bond'. He could take solace in that.  
If he was to take one thing from his training in the Eyrie, he hoped it would be the knowledge of how to defend an impenetrable fortress.  
For that was what the Eyrie was and that was what he would make out of Moat Cailin.

He was calmer now, the gods wood a balm on his mind. Would they have one in the Vale, a gods wood where the gods could see him?  
Probably not, seeing that all the Andals in the Seven Kingdoms started their invasion from the Vale. Maybe house Royce or Redfort honored their First Men origins. Or the mountain tribes had a place where he could pray. As if they would welcome him, him, the ward of their ancestral enemy Arryn.

He would likely not get to see a proper weirwood until his wardship ended and he came back home. Would it still be his home?  
Or would he be a stranger in Winterfell, a stranger to his siblings like he was a stranger to his sire?  
He felt his tears then, the thought truly painful, heartrending, the threat of losing his pack. He had not cried since that night when his grandfather held him safe.

He stood there, crying silently under the eyes of his gods, embraced in their silent solace, ensured of their presence through the somber mood the air carried while he prayed for the protection of his siblings when he was away. When his eyes had dried and he did not know what to pray for anymore, Ned left to find Lya and little Ben. 

Making a straight beeline for a more secluded part of the gods wood Ned was not surprised to find the two of them fighting with sticks. Of course he had known for months, Rodrik probably as well, but neither saw the need to alert Rickard to the fact. The attempt at sparring seemed to make the two little ones truly happy and that was all Ned cared about. 

However, as this was the first time Lya and Ben were disturbed in their game, the two of them promptly discarding their sticks while one looked at their brother defiantly and the other tried to duck out of his sight. Meeting Lya’s gaze a small chuckle escaped Ned, more mirthful than happy today. The two had truly believed their little escapades to remain a secret from their ever watchful brother.

“Relax, little sister, nothing is further from my mind than to keep you from doing what makes you happy. I won’t tell father, though grandfather already knows. He says you remind him of mother when she was little, more wolf than lady and the most precious when you smile. We’ll keep your secret”, Ned said calmly, the smile splitting his sister’s face a reward in and of itself.  
There was no need for further questions for Lyanna and Ben, their big brother Ned being the solid rock they clung to since their mother died.  
Motioning his pack mates to come closer, Ned took a knee and winked conspiratively at them.  
“What do the two of you say I give you some secret training tomorrow?”, Ned whispered when they were close enough and only nodded when they gasped and asked if he spoke truly.  
“Of course, no one may know. Not even grandpa Rodrik or Bran, do you to promise?” Ned’s heart grew at the sight of Lya’s and Ben’s open adoration as they vigorously shook their heads in agreement.

 

When they went dancing after their time in the woods Ned only danced with Lya, never with Nan that day, and he moved more gracious, more immersed in the flow and with more desperation than he ever had before. Only at the end did Ned take Ben by the hand and twirled him around to the beat, not following any patterns, just giving himself to the pure movement that came from his soul.  
Lya watched on with a tired smile as Ben laughed in joy at the whirlwind he was part of. Only old Nan looked on in slight concern, curious what brought about little Ned’s desperate enthusiasm today. She knew something must have changed.

Ned did not take his siblings riding that day, dancing until dinner before he let go of their hands. The little ones would have been too exhausted by then anyways, never having witnessed their brother moving with such a wild passion and being swept along in it.  
It had dawned on them as well that something was different today but they were too afraid to ask. Nothing was supposed to change for them ever again.  
Dinner was, obviously, a frosty affair. The new, even colder rift between Rickard Stark and his son was like a wound in the family, everyone aware of it but no one brave enough to poke at the scabbing. Never before had Lya slinked away as quietly after dinner when ordered to, Ben scurrying off with her, afraid of the unspoken. Something was wrong, they knew it. Rickard rose briskly, leaving but not daring to look at his son while Rodrik held back his stone-faced grandson.

 

“Pup”, Rodrik started, voice rough and serious, “I've talked with our father. I will raise you, still away from Winterfell, but you won’t be fostered at the Eyrie.  
Your father is right in giving you space, forcing you away. The Vale, however, is not for our kind. While you grow up I will take you through all of Westeros.”  
Ned turned to look at his grandfather, his movements mechanical and jerky. His eyes’ luster was broken, his look betrayed.  
“Why?”, a voice croaked out, it must have been Ned’s. 

“Because you need to heal and you won’t heal here. Lyarra’s ghost wanders these walls and while she can give you solace she will also keep the wound fresh.  
You are still young; you can let her go. In these halls you won’t be able to, but you have to do just that”, Rodrik implored solemnly.  
“I fear if you stay here, even if your body will not grow stunted through our training, your heart will, just through our presence here.  
I love you too much to let that happen. Your mother loved you too much to ever forgive me if that happened. And despite all, your father loves you too much to let that happen to you even if he feels it is happening to him.”

Ned, as per usual, was his somber, quiet, contemplating self again before he made to answer with a low growl:  
“You know—.  
Grandfather, I feel a cold anger towards father –and now towards you, too, grandfather— but I hope I can thank the both of you some day. That I come around to see it as you do.  
Because I am hurting, I know that. But when I leave, Ben and Lya will hurt more. I cannot forgive that. Even if the reason is that you both care for me.  
Also, I want to know, why are you opposed to fostering at the Eyrie? I want to know everything that goes into decisions about my life. So that even if I cannot forgive I can at least understand.”

A vicious snarl marred Rodrik’s face for a second, a wild, wolfish thing. A very Stark expression, every wolf had it.  
People might call it ugly but it wasn't, it was savage and ferocious, seeming more beastly than human. A tenacious, disdainful grimace.  
Then it was gone, but you could hear it in Rodrik’s voice as he spoke, as he spat out the next sentence as if it offended him:  
“Life in the Eyrie would defang you, pup. You would learn the wrong things because in the south our way of life is viewed with disdain and they don’t understand it, they would spoil you to our ways.  
I could make your father see that, so I could get him to agree.

There are worse consequences,still. More to the concerns your mother would have had about your upbringing, not your father. I fear without one of your pack to come along with you who you trust, you would withdraw within yourself.  
Your hackles have been raised since your mother died and your siblings and I have kept you from getting lost. Your father once thought you shy instead of quiet and insightful.  
Without one of your pack you truly might grow to be shy. To cope with not trusting people. And even if you grow to trust them still, after some time, I fear your shyness would have become part of you.

A wolf can never be shy for we are the hunters that best winter. I respect your father but I fear your mother more, Ned.  
If I let you become nothing but an honorable fool that dies when winter is coming she would rise from her grave and strike me down.  
So I will be your pack and raise you, to be the deadliest wolf since Theon Stark, to bring the pack to greater heights together with Brandon when it comes to you two to lead us.

In the Eyrie you would learn to put honor first, always. But you are a Stark. We are honorable, we don’t need to be trained to act it.  
Always remember, pup”, Rodrik’s gaze was drilling itself into Ned’s now, the boy entranced by the savage glint, “honor is important.  
But on a battlefield, survival comes first and honor must become an afterthought. And here, in the North, where the cold wind blows, life is a battlefield.”

After that Rodrik left, leaving behind ever-quiet Ned, in whose mind, just this once, even his thoughts had stilled.


	12. Ned V / Winterfell / 270 AD

Gods damn that old man.  
Greaves. Fucking steel greaves.  
Of course the weighted lead filled boots weren’t enough, now heavy greaves were thrown into the mix.

Despite staying up long into the night thinking about everything and nothing, right now Ned could not think of anything but knife tricks to properly slip past Rodrik’s guard while sparring later, possibly give a nip back for all the ones he had received.  
He had been thinking of knives more since yesterday. One one hand, he did not have to think about his departure from Winterfell that way. On the other, it was the only appropriately sized weapon he could school his siblings into using to any effect. After all, he had given his word to train them and his word was his bond. 

He did not choose knife training because he was best at using them, far from it in fact, he was a lot better with bow and arrows or a sword and dagger combination.  
No, knives were simply easier to conceal for Lya and Ben, compared to a sword or spear. Also, they could be thrown. At throwing, at least, he was apparently exceptional with knives.  
Even Rodrik had complimented his accuracy with projectiles –throwing knives and arrows alike. It was likely the only straight compliment he had gotten so far, he really must be doing something right with those blades. During all other parts of training the highest praise he got amounted to ‘barely passable’.

Through all his training Ned had realized that Rodrik was –objectively speaking— an asshole. A right cunt, in a way.  
He took obvious delight in making the training harder on Ned. Also in insulting him in numerous ways when Ned did not live up to his insanely high standards.  
Some of his grandfather’s crasser vocabulary had rubbed off on him, obviously, and, sadly, through him on Lya as well. Mother would probably have been furious with all three of them.  
Ned, though, was only at ease enough around a trusted few people to let his new manner of speech really shine through and Rodrik, as one of those few, did not care at all.  
Rickard, on the other hand, had so far only heard curses from Lyanna, none from him. He had not been happy with his daughter and good father but could not find any fault with Ned at the time.

Running along, his muscle strain had become such a part of daily live that his thoughts could not help but wander, entirely different compared to when he started his first runs. Back then he did not have the energy to think from exertion. Now though, the questions he had avoided last night were pressing down on him. Where would Rodrik take him?  
Ned knew that his grandfather was probably the most well-travelled Stark that had ever lived, going as further east than Volantis in his sell sword days and traversing all of Westeros with his wife.  
After grandmother Arya had died, back when Mother and Rickard had just married, he had fled Westeros a second time, only coming back just after Lyanna was born.

Rounding the castle again Ned saw dawn approaching already and he wasn’t exhausted yet, even with the heavier greaves slowing him down. Time for a sprint around the castle then, his remedy for abundance of breath for two weeks already.  
He had only made the mistake of finishing his rounds without labored breath once, Rodrik had made sure of that.  
Vicious bastard that he was, that had been the only day thus far that Rodrik made Ned wear full weighted armor through all his training.  
He had not been able to avoid a single thrown pebble during evasion training. He still had to wince at the memory, all because Rodrik said one day of real training would not make him a dwarf.  
Real training, my ass. Ned was not looking forward to wearng full training gear in the future, and yet, he could not anticipate enough being able to.

Coming up on the gate again with sufficient wheezing in his breath he could see Rodrik at the ready, waiting for him.  
Evasion training was a breeze today, except when Rodrik aimed for his legs, the damn greaves messing with his usual balance.  
The forms, or kata as Rodrik insisted, gave him a rhythm now, almost like dancing, so he was able to keep his focus on the incoming stones without projecting his awareness.  
That had been the first goal he had met from his training, pride even flitting over grandfather’s usually stoic mentor mask.  
Rarely had Ned felt so accomplished. Even Rickard’s pride had not been so precious, back when Ned still looked up at him as his father.

Cyvasse was a loss like always, even if Ned almost beat Rodrik once today. Of course, a game of cyvasse could not be played without simultaneously going over a historic battle in the way of simulating it through a mental kriegsspiel with his grandfather; today it was one of the skirmishes from the War of the Ninepenny Kings in the Stepstones.  
_‘To force you to learn multitasking and parallel thought’_ , Rodrik would say. That was bullshit, obviously, in reality the kriegsspiel was just meant to be a distraction so Rodrik could try to cheat on the Cyvasse board between them. The first time Ned had caught his grandfather doing that he had been incensed. Since then he always tried to memorize the board after each move.  
The only good thing was that Ned now knew cheating was tacitly allowed, even if he had not managed to pull a fast one on Rodrik yet. It made both games more challenging and at least in the mental kriegsspiel he had managed to win some scenarios.

Going back to the training yard Rodrik pulled out the weapon he had introduced last week, sickle and chain he called it, the most vicious contraption Ned had ever seen.  
Still, this was the most relaxing part of the training because for now Ned was only allowed to slowly circle the weighted chain as even the blunted training tool he used could cause debilitating injuries to himself.

“Why am I learning to use this weapon? I can see it is deadly but I probably will never have the space to ever use it in the field”, asked Ned, one of the very few question he ever raised at a training instruction from his grandfather. The demonstration Rodrik had given him with the weapon once and the destroyed dummies in the yard attested to his words but it was obvious the weapon would always be a liability to his allies, even if he managed to acquire superb control over it.

“This is not a weapon for the battlefields, pup, nor for skirmishes.  
With this beauty you will win every duel to the death and Trial by Combat you find yourself in”, Rodrik explained patiently, “I myself took a long time to master its use.  
A brother-in-arms from Yi Ti taught me after I saved his life in Norvos. He was also the one to show me the katas I’ve been teaching you.  
His people have perfected the art of hand-to-hand combat in a way I’ve not seen before or since.”

Ned had been wondering were those movements originated from, the fighting system was obviously foreign.  
But Rodrik usually never talked about his time in Essos, maybe now with their own journey on the horizon, Ned might be able to ply some information from Rodrik.  
“Have you ever gone to Yi Ti then, grandfather? Will we also travel to Essos and go there in a few years?”, needled Ned.

An amused glint flashed through his grandfather eyes, he was obviously aware of the intentions of his pupil.  
Still, he made to speak, in a mood today to divulge on his time abroad and to prepare his grandson for what awaited him and what did not:  
“Aye, I’ve travelled Yi Ti and further as well. I’ve seen the people being bled in sacrifices in K’Dath and talked with bone traders in Bonetown.  
I’ve trained at the Five Forts with the Yitish Legion and walked in the splendor of Yin, the Eternal City.  
The furthest I’ve been is Asshai, where I clashed with the shadowbinders in the night.  
You, however, will never be able to travel to Yi Ti with me, little pup.”

“Why? Will we not travel to Essos, grandfather?”, asked Ned, a little surprised.  
Rodrik levelled his gaze at his grandson and said: “We might travel to Essos.  
That depends on whether your father allows it and we won't make it there anytime before a few years from now, if ever.  
But I can never cross the Bone Moutains east of Qarth again for I have a binding treaty with the Covenant of the Shadowbinders.  
In return, they will never act in the North or against the Starks while I still draw breath.”

Ned, almost afraid, drew only a whisper: “Are they that much of a threat, that you would bind yourself so?”  
“Yes, pup, their magic is great and terrible”, said Rodrik, giving Ned a slight frown at his incredulous look, “don’t doubt it.  
Here, in the North, there is more magic around you than in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.  
Let’s stop weapons training for today. Walk with me, Ned.”

Ned almost faltered in his chain swings and dropped the sickle. They had never—...  
Never before had they stopped any kind of training before completing the daily quota, never had they broken their training routine.  
Locking up the chain and sickle in its trunk –it wasn’t kept easily accessible as the other training weapons in the yard— Ned hurried after his grandfather who had already strode ahead.  
He only caught up to his grandfather in the godswood where Rodrik was already kneeling before the heart tree in silent prayer. Ned joined his grandfather quietly before both of them rose.

“How do you feel?”, asked Rodrik, reverently.  
None of Rodrik’s questions were ever without purpose so Ned put all his feelings to word: “Calm. Safe. Heavy. Watched. Protected. –“  
He made to speak more but was missing the right words. Before he could find them he was interrupted by his grandfather:  
“‘The old gods watch through the eyes of a weirwood’, Ned. You know this. The old gods are gods of magic.  
Every heart tree is a small refuge of magic left behind by the First Men and those-who-sing-the-song-of-the-earth, the Children of the Forest. The Wall, Winterfell, Storm’s End and Hightower are pockets of greater magic where Brandon the Builder wove anew the fabric of creation.  
Magic is real, it's only because you grew up here that you don’t notice it. When you are in front of the heart tree and feel the gaze of the gods you feel protected.  
People of other faiths usually feel heavy, watched and oppressed. They are not welcome here, in the inner sanctum of the old gods.”

Rodrik left the godswood again, this time making for the library tower with Ned on his heels as he continued to speak:  
“The Citadel proclaims that magic is dead or dying and that is true; for Valyrian magic, that is. It died with the last dragon.  
But there are other kinds of magic around; ours is strong in the Neck and at the Wall and beyond. Most of our magic retreated north with the direwolves and the Children of the Forest.  
Even further away, in the Lands of Always Winter, magic is still feral.

So yes, magic is real, magic is alive and magic is dangerous.  
And I know no other magic as insidious as the arts of the shadowbinders. You should fear them –but remember, shadowbinders fear you as well, as theirs is the magic of the night.  
They fear you because you carry the name and blood of the Starks. Names and blood are are of high importance in magic and it was Brandon Stark the Builder who beat back the Long Night.  
The magicians of the night remember that and so they fear the blood and the name of the Starks.”

They had reached the Library Tower now, walking up the winding staircase on the outside and stepping into the deepest recesses on the highest floor.  
On the way Rodrik took a copy of _‘Against the Unnatural’_ from one of the shelves, his steps not even missing a beat. Rodrik pulled a small hidden lever Ned had never noticed before and a wall opened to show another book case, cluttered with old tomes. Ned saw titles in the Common Tongue, many a title written with runes and a singular book covered in a script Ned recognized as Valyrian, even as he knew not a single letter of its alphabet, Rodrik reached for an old leather-bound book, emblazoned with the title _‘Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History’_.

“These books will form the bedrock of your education on magic”, Rodrik said solemnly, “be careful with them.  
This is probably the only full copy of Barth’s _‘Unnatural History’_ that escaped Baelor’s book burnings in all of Westeros and Rickard and I would not dare to let a maester see, much less copy it.  
No one outside our family is ever allowed to know that this one copy still exists for the knowledge within holds great power.

Read the two books together, they complement and contradict each other, trying to answer the same questions.  
The best parts of Barth are actually on anything but on dragons, despite the title. Especially his research into ravens is intriguing.  
Maester Vanyon’s book, on the other hand, will teach you on our indigineous dragons in Westeros. There might be some hidden in Westeros still.  
Dragons, like direwolves, Children and giants breathe magic; and are themselves the breath of magic.

If you want to read more books from the hidden shelf you need to improve your knowledge of the Old Tongue, most books there are written in runes.  
You should probably improve your language training anyways, for what’s to come.”  
Rodrik could not suppress a grin of schadenfreude at that. 

"What about the books in the Common Tongue? And that last one, in Valyrian isn't it?"  
Rodrik's smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Most of the books on the hidden shelf are the last copy in existance or one of the few copies left, mostly from books that Baelor Targaryen ordered burnt in his boundless folishness. The last book is the most valuable book in the world and the last of its kind there is. Never tell anyone that we have it in our posession, for there are men out there who would kill to look at its contents. We will return for it when you are older and more learned, just know that it does not have a purpose for House Stark right now, and pray it never will."

Then he went off again, leaving Ned with the two books to read. Ned could hear him going through some shelves and picking another book somewhere further in the room as he opened _‘Unnatural History’_ and read the dedication of the book:

> _‘To Princess Aerea Targaryen. Daughter of Aegon the Uncrowned and heir apparent to Aenys I Targaryen, the Iron Throne and the Realm of the Seven Kingdoms 48 AC to 53 AC. To her memory and her untimely death in the year 56 AC; may the Mother embrace you, child, and may you find the peace in her embrace that life denied you.’_

Ned had heard of the fate of princess Aerea, missing for a year from the realm without a word, only to return with unspeakable illness and injuries.  
He did not have the chance to read further, however, as Rodrik stepped up to the table once more and dropped a heavy book in front of him.

“Read this also. We’ll leave for the Wall on your eighth name day and I’ve talked with your father that we’ll make our way from Bear Island southward next year.  
People will be told that you are being fostered with Lord Jeor on Bear Island.  
Now, this book will teach you all about the people we’ll visit before we make it to Mormont’s Keep.”  
There was a smile playing in Rodrik’s eyes as he spoke, a savage glee to his features. Something was up, Ned knew it. He looked at the book in front of him.

_‘Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches’_.  
'Old gods protect us', Ned thought, 'we are going beyond the Wall.'


	13. Lyanna I / Winterfell / 270

Dearest Ned had become odd recently. Well, he had always been odd but not like this.  
Before he was odd in a different way. Like, he was always quite. Quiet people were always odd; you never knew what they were thinking.  
Normal people were usually loud and did fun things, like Bran and her. Dearest Ned did not always do fun things.

He read, for example. She was not sure if he liked reading but reading people were always odd.  
When people were reading they were never doing anything fun, they were not riding or climbing or playing or running or all the other things you could do when you were not just sitting around.  
Dearest Ned did some fun things when he was not reading, though, like playing with her. Especially often they played dancing and hide-and-seek.

Dearest Ned was the worst seeker ever in the history of hide-and-seek.  
What was odd, though, was that he always knew where to find her when she was hiding from the rest of the household at times when they were not playing.  
Even when she hid in mama’s private quarters where nobody went anymore, under the fur coats in the very back of closet.

Lya liked that place, the old fox scarves and the comfy chaise longue still smelled like mama.  
She had had to ask Dearest Ned for that word, chaise longue, she always called it funny chair before.  
Dearest Ned knew everything, like other odd people that read too much.  
Lya did not hide at mama’s old quarter too often though. Because only Dearest Ned would find her there and he always looked in pain when he did, more than at other times. 

That was the thing that was new odd about Dearest Ned now. He had been the one most in pain when mama left.  
However, when he was playing with Ben and her he was less in pain. At least until a few days ago when he almost went mad dancing with them.  
Now he was always in pain and looked it also while playing together with Ben and her.  
Dearest Ned should not be in pain; Dearest Ned should always be laughing!  
He rarely did it before mama went to grandpa Edwyle, and now even less so, but there was no laughter as infectious as Dearest Ned’s.  
He should be laughing everyday like Brandon who even laughed when there was nothing funny.

But Dearest Ned did not laugh, he looked in pain, always a little and more when he looked at her and Ben now.  
Fresh pain, not like papa whose pain was old and not leaving, whose pain did not hurt him apparently, whose pain made him only less happy and less feeling.  
Papa and Dearest Ned were in different pain and differently odd. Papa’s kind of odd had been just the same since mama left.  
It only grew stronger now but it did not change much. Papa did not hug and snuggle her anymore since then whereas Dearest Ned hugged and snuggled her more.

At the start it was nice because papa’s muscles where always too hard and his hugs were not too comfortable. They were no replacement for mama’s hugs.  
Dearest Ned was more huggable than papa. Less than mama, of course, but mamas were always softer than papas and all men Old Nan told her.  
But now even Dearest Ned’s muscles were just as hard as papa’s and hugging him was less nice. He was still better at snuggling than papa, however. That was probably just talent and practice. 

She did miss papa’s hugs sometimes, even if they were not as comfortable as mama's or Ned's. She did not know why why she missed them.  
Sometimes she just wished papa would hug her again. Even if his hugs had been hard they had been nice back then.  
But now papa did not hug her anymore and only Dearest Ned did, even if he always looked sad. That was odd, too, hugging was nice not sad and made you smile, not sad. 

So today Lya had made it her mission to find out why Dearest Ned was a different odd from before; and she knew just who to ask: Grandpa Rodrik.  
Even if he was usually acting stern towards all of his grandchildren, Lya only had to hug his leg really really hard and he would coo at her and smile stupidly and tell her of mother.  
Somehow, it only worked that way for her. Ben had tried once to hug grandpa that way and grandpa Rodrik just walked on with Ben hanging onto his leg.  
Ben liked that a lot, so now he was sometimes just hanging onto Rodrik’s leg and said ‘go, grandpa horse’ and Rodrik would walk with Ben clinging to him everywhere.  
But grandpa did not tell Ben any stories about mother or ‘ _secrets he should not tell his favorite granddaughter’_. And his favorite granddaughter, grandpa Rodrik had told Lyanna, was her.

Silly grandpa, of course Lya was his favorite granddaughter. Lya was his only granddaughter. Auntie Branda only had sons.  
There wereno secrets you can’t tell your favorite people. Lyanna knew that. She kept no secrets from her favortie people. Only a few.  
Because when a girl wants to learn how to fight, that is something only mamas and brothers can know but no papas.  
Even favorite papas cannot know that you want to learn fighting, mama had told her once. But brothers can tell you everything because papas don’t forbid them anything.  
So it did not make sense that Ned kept secrets from her. She really wanted to know what was wrong, grandpa's leg would need to be hugged soon.

Lya made her way to the library because that was were Dearest Ned and grandpa spent more and more time now. Stupid, to play less with swords and more with books.  
Skipping up the rough steps Lya made sure not to step on the lines between the stones.  
Why did they retreat to the highest floor of the library? There were enough books on the ground floor and the books further up were only older and more boring.

Inside the reading room Ned was sitting at the desk with an old, almost ancient looking book in front of him.  
“Dearest Ned, what are you reading today?” Lya came to a halt next to his chair. It was made of wood and did not look comfy, no pillows at all and no fur to seat on.  
Dearest Ned looked at here for a second. He had that thinking look again. “I’m reading of grumpkins and snarks.”

“You like those stories, too? I prefer snarks, they always seem funnier but my favorites are dragons. Are you reading any stories of dragons as well?”  
At last Dearest Ned found a story about interesting things. He laughed at that moment, a throaty chuckle. His laugh was the most infectious so Lya joined in with a giggle of her own.  
“I actually am reading about dragons as well, sis. I don’t read stories though, I am reading history accounts and scientific theory.”  
Ned’s reply was weird. Dragons and grumpkins and snarks were fun but history and science books were not.  
Their language never made dragons seem great, just like cows or chicken or any other animal. There was no animal more boring than chickens and dragons were not like them.  
Also, none of history book that were read to Lya in her lessons had ever featured had grumpkins and snarks. Only the story books Old Nan read to them when they were all coming together around the fire place during a blizzard contained the wondrous beasts.

“Oh. Is it still interesting, even from a history book? Why do you not look at the story books if you want to know of snarks?”  
If Dearest Ned was reading books, Lya would help him read fun books. Maybe he just needed a push in the right direction.  
In response her brother pushed a weighty tome her way, written in scribbles she did not know.  
“I already read most story books, Lya. Look here, this book is a very old one; it’s so old that no one knows whether it is a story book or a history book.” 

“What are these letters? I don’t know them and I already know all the letters, Nan promised me there aren’t any more.”  
Did Nan lie to her? Ben did not know all the letters yet but Lya hoped that period of learning was over for her. Too much sitting inside was involved.

“Deirfiúr, these are the letters that the Old Tongue uses. They are called runes. Don’t worry, you will not have to learn them.”  
Lya was happy. No more letter learning, and Dearest Ned called her _‘deirfiúr’_ again. Dearest Ned told her it meant sister in the Old Tongue.  
He was the only one to call her that. Just like she was the only one to call him Dearest Ned. 

Well, originally that had been mama’s name for him so only now was Lya the only one to call him that.  
Like always when she thought of mama Lyanna felt tears come to her eyes. She had not started crying but already Dearest Ned had closed his arms around her and pulled her in, hugging her close and tight. He knew her, better than anyone else.  
Muffled sobs shook her. She had been missing mama less recently. She even thought about her less.  
Sometimes she felt bad about that and then she did not cry for missing mama but for not missing her. Dearest Ned was always there to hold her, in both cases. 

Her tears were ebbing now and she felt the hurt fade. Dearest Ned’s shirt was soaked on his shoulder.  
She turned to him to apologize and again she saw the hurt in his eyes. But she saw something else, too, and it terrified her. She saw guilt.

“What are you hiding from me?” She had wanted to apologize for wetting his shirt.  
She did not know why she questioned him but she felt him go limp when she did, suddenly holding onto her as much as she was holding onto him.  
He was the one to break eye contact, his eyes turning to the ground.

“I’m sorry, deirfiúr. I will be leaving Winterfell soon, in a moon when I turn eight. I will be gone for some time.”  
Ned still did not dare to look at her. “You will not see me for years. I do not want to leave you but grandfather and your father agree that I should be raised elsewhere. Grandfather will leave with me, too.”

Lya felt the ground fall away but Dearest Ned was there again, holding her securely. She realized, right there, that he would not hold her like this come two moon turns anymore.  
The ground was already treacherous and now the whole room was spinning. Lya felt her mouth go dry.

“Are you leaving—“.  
Lya’s breath caught in her throat, the sentence stuck in her, hammering in her heart but dying on her tongue. Rapidly, and in a whisper, she managed to hurl it out: “Are you leaving like mama?”

Lya’s shoulder was wet all of a sudden. She knew what this was, but it wasn’t right. Dearest Ned’s shoulder got wet when she cried but Dearest Ned did not cry on her shoulder.  
Dearest Ned did not cry. He was strong and hard and soft and he hugged her like mama had. But her shoulder was wet and her brother was shaking, holding her not just safe for her but also desperately for himself. 

“No, Lya, no, of course not, no, no, never. I’ll always be here for you. No I am not leaving like Mother.”  
Dearest Ned was breathing raggedly now, murmuring no and never into her shoulder, his insecurity causing her tears to flow again.  
“I’m not leaving like Mother, I’m leaving like Brandon, never like Mother. But I will leave farther than Brandon and I can’t come riding home to you whenever I want. I can only write you letters.”

Her Dearest Ned was hurting. For her, like alwayys. For himself, like never. Lya knew. Her Dearest Ned only hurt for them anymore, for her and for Ben and sometimes for Brandon.  
His own hurt was hidden deep inside and festering. The maester had warned her once, when she had scraped a knee and the cleaning of the wound hurt more than the wound itself.  
You must clean the wound for it to heal. Maybe grandpa and papa were right. Ned was not healing himself when he was helping her and Ben heal.  
It hurt that he would leave, right now it hurt, it hurt both of them. But it was necessary for her Dearest Ned.  
She did not know why but she knew. 

Just as she knew what she had to say to him, right now, right here. It was the same thing he told them every night:  
“Dearest Ned, I let you go. I love you, wherever you are, never forget that.  
Also, never forget this: Mama loves you, too, now, forever and always. Even if she’s not with you right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maaaaan, writing from the perspective of a four year old is torture.  
> Therefore, you will not see another chapter by Lyanna until she's older.  
> Please tell me though if this chapter seems at least remotely realistic for a girl of Lyanna's age.  
> I'm cheating with Ned's perspective cause I make him way too smart and traumatised, thus forcibly grown up in his chapters.  
> This chapter took the longest by far just rewriting everything over and over.


	14. Ned VI / Winterfell / 271 AD

The dreaded day had come. It was so sad, in a way, that he had been wanting this day, his eighth name day, never to come. For the year 270 AC to never end.  
His name day was usually met with expectation from everyone in Winterfell. Of course, the main reason for that was that it coincided with the day the new year began and people celebrated that winter solstice had past with the night.

Not Winter winter, that strange thing that was unfathomable and came every few years and paralyzed the whole North with a blanket of ice and storms.  
Just the normal yearly cycle of temperatures that the citadel could explain to people and not the fury of the gods that the maesters just proclaimed.

Still, to be born when winter solstice night broke as well as in the middle of a raging true winter had his Mother proclaim him the staunchest winter baby.  
How he would weather the blizzards and feel no cold. At least that was what she had told him every year when they celebrated, apart from the solstice feast with the family. Until last year.  
Never again would Mother press a kiss to his forehead on this day and tell him how blessed she felt to have him. He even missed Rickard’s smiles of affection today.

A name day should be joyous, not dreadful. Not this, not this hollow pit inside. It was the last day with his siblings, damn it, he should not part from them a desolate wooden copy of himself.  
They should play and fight and ride and not sit in stuffy halls condemned to bleak, oppressive silence. Ned liked quiet moments but he would do anything to escape the lack of sound right now. Was he even breathing anymore?

Rickard cut the kidney pie, Ned’s favorite, his knife hitting the board underneath with a dull thud. Today the hearty treat tasted like ash so Ned had barely touched his.  
He could see the same leftovers on his siblings’ plates. Rickard was eating with a robotic inhumaneness while Rodrik ate and swallowed quickly, not meeting his grandchildren’s eyes.  
What a wonderful day.

There had been a reprieve when Bran had arrived a week earlier, the older boy intent to see his brother off happy. But as the days dragged on and on the enthusiasm had even waned from the wildest one and the sparks of happiness were smothered. The pack was about to scatter again and they would be apart for a long, long time.

His sire was not even oblivious to this, no, that might have been forgivable, Rickard was simply uncaring. At his directives Ned would not be able to oversee Lya and Ben growing up.  
Would he fail Mother, away in a far off land? Of course Bran had forgiven him, there was nothing to forgive and Bran had been angry at father. But would he forget? Ned knew, loved his older brother and he could not say.

At long last Rickard had finished his food and taken in the plates of his children. For once he did not reprimand them for leaving food behind. Maybe the mood was even getting to him, however little of it.  
Pushing back his tall chair, a discordant rumble over the rough-hewn stone, Rickard knocked on the table with his knuckles to grasp his children’s attention, trying to wrest them away from their idle misery.

“Son. I had the servants stoke the fire in the parlor. Your gifts await you there.” Instead of joy at Rickard’s words Ned felt as apathetic towards this revelation as his father had been to the true wishes of his children. 

The only thing that awaited him was probably a new sword again, to replace the gift from last year that he had outgrown.  
Benjen’s gift, well, Benjen had not really understood yet the concept of giving gifts away yet, so it was probably a nice trinket he found in the gods wood.  
Ned could not fathom what Lya’s gift would be as nobody could ever fathom anything about Lya.  
If he was lucky Bran had brought one of the horses from Lord Dustin’s estate, one of those the Ryswells bred. As if. Even if he was close with Barbrey Ryswell, that was just in the realm of fantasy. His best bet was on a set of new dice as he had hinted at his big brother –quite obviously, it might be mentioned— that his last set had first been appropriated by their younger siblings and subsequently lost.  
The big mystery was Rodrik’s present. Ned did not have an inkling, his grandfather stone-walling all his attempts to make subtle inquieries about it.

Entering the parlor with his family Ned was engulfed by the warm firelight, the timber crackling quietly and the flame tongues licking the upper stone lips on the mouth of the chimney.  
Away from the dreary dinner room it seemed that some life had returned to the four youngest Starks again, the prospect of gifting flooding three of the children with anticipation and sweeping along the middle son by association. Benjen was even squirming on his feet.

“Ned, Ned, me first, ok? Alright here, take this, what do you say?” The words were running out of his mouth as Ben stepped up giddily, a small velveteen pouch in his hand.  
“Thank you, Ben.” Ned ‘s face was graced by a small smile that chased away the coldness in his eyes as he replied to his brother.  
Opening the little white pocket in his hand Ned found a set of five dice, apparently freshly carved from the tusks of a boar.  
Benjen was anxiously looking at Ned, trying to ascertain how his gift was received, when Ned suddenly pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you. I’ll treasure them on the road.”

Ned had not expected to be given the dice by his younger brother. From Ben’s anxiousness Ned could gleam that the idea had been his own, not a suggestion by someone when he could not find a good present himself.  
His brother returned the tight hug, mumbling _‘I’ll miss you’_ and _‘Come back earlier’_ , showing an awareness of Ned’s long absence that surprised a little.  
Seeing a small tear in Ben’s eyes, coupled with fear and a hint of desolation let the matter truly set in for Ned. Ben was afraid his brother would not return. Like Mother.  
“I’ll try.” Ned was shortly at a loss at how to continue. “I’ll write. Learn your letters and I’ll be always a raven away.”  
Squeezing Benjen one last time, they released each other and turned to the rest of Starks.

Lyanna stepped up to Ned now, fidgeting a little, just as nervous as Benjen. “I’ve… made something for you. I’m not good at it and it’s not pretty but I couldn’t make a more beautiful one.”  
She handed over a small piece of cloth, a burgee with an emblem embroidered on top, depicting a wolf’s head showing a small smile. When she continued there was a small scowl on her face as she looked at the piece of cloth in both their hands.  
“It took me six tries to get the embroidery right so it captured your smile.”

Ned looked at the emblem, then at Lya, then at the emblem… This didn’t make sense.  
Lyanna did not do embroidery, in fact, Lya hated embroidery. Ned could see needle wounds on her fingertips and was grasping for her hand, taking it in both of his, making it stop its trembling.  
“It’s beautiful. I love it. I’ll keep it as my personal sigil until I come back here.” Ned was looking her straight in eye.  
He slightly pulled up one corner of his mouth, mirroring the wolf on the banner in his hand.  
“And when I return I’ll commission you to embroider a new sigil for me, displaying my proudest achievement as a wandering wolf. My Lady.”  
Lya giggled, huffed, snorted out at the hated title and jumped at Ned, wrapping him in her arms.  
Here in this parlor the dreaded name day had already turned to be a wonderful farewell, upending all of Ned’s expectations. 

After Lya had stepped back to make room for Brandon she slung her arm around Benjen and the two of them cuddled up together in one of the leather bound seats at the fire, watching their eldest brother approach with leather wrapped book in his hands. “Grandfather bade me to bring this book from Barrow Hall for you. ‘Passages of the Dead’ by Maester Kennet, full of First Men lore about giants and magic and kings.”  
Brandon cocked one eyebrow in that mischievous way of his, looking at Ned with his usual impertinent smirk. “Don’t let him drop you off at the Citadel, though, I’ll need you here as my right hand man, brother.”

Ned took the book; this was definitely not a present he had expected from Brandon. Apparently, he was right. It wasn’t the present Bran had brought for him. Brandon stood ramrod straight, for once looking like a proper heir, safe for a short glance at Rodrik.  
“Eddard Stark, I, Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North, hereby swear on my name that after we meet again you may have any one boon I can grant you in my capacity representing House Stark and our kingdom.” There was a short lull after he spoke, the hall almost echoing the solemn, almost regal oath. 

A Stark’s word was his bond. And looking at Rickard, this had not been expected. But looking at Rodrik, it had.  
Brandon passed over a small scroll with the same oath in wording, signed by him and with Rodrik as witness to make it official.  
Seeing his brother’s incredulous expression and after a short rising chuckle, Brandon also embraced Ned and whispered so only they could hear: “I had Rodrik help me with the wording. The looks on your and father’s faces was definitely worth it. Come back to me, brother.” And with that Brandon stepped back as well, taking his place next to Rickard who, for a first today, looked a little rankled.

The significance of the promise was a little lost on Lya and totally on Benjen but not on anyone else in the room.  
Rickard, still not in control of his face, was failing to suppress a red-faced scowl while Rodrik had the same problem but with a smug grin. That was a powerful promise given to Ned.  
With the writ safely in his hand Rickard could not contradict Brandon on this matter without condemning his heir to be an oath breaker. Not a title a future Lord Paramount could have accompanying his name. 

Thus, Rickard simply strolled forward silently and placed another piece of parchment next to Brandon’s.  
“In this document it is written that upon your return to Winterfell after your fosterage you shall be awarded Lordship of a restored Moat Cailin, with lands stretching from the source of the Fever to the coast of the Bite. You are charged with establishing a new cadet branch of house Stark.  
Copies of this order are here in the keep and in the hands of the maesters at the Citadel. It is official. I expect you to make me proud, son.”

Rickard reached for his son’s shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze, for once in months they were locking eyes once again with a trace of warmth between them.  
Everything Ned dreamt of since Mother had died was in his grasp at that moment: his remaining family was together, Moat Cailin was his and with it the power to protect his pack.  
And tomorrow it would be as far as it ever was. But right there, right then, Ned was happy.

The last one to present his gift was Rodrik. It was a small whistle out of horn. When Ned tried to sound it it remained silent.  
But then there was an answer to the silence, a high whinny. With eyes like saucers, only surpassed by the look on Lya’s face, Ned turned into the direction of the noise and ran out of the halls, his siblings hot on his heels.

In the middle of the court yard tied to a small wooden pole stood a filly, slender of limb and with a long coat of white speckled in grey. Entranced by the sight Ned blew the whistle once more, only to be answered by the graceful creature in front of him. His sister was to his side mirroring Ned while his brothers had just caught up to them.  
Finally, Rodrik stepped up to the balustrade along them, threw a short glance towards the filly and turned to Ned.  
“It’s mother is the mare of your grandmother Arya. That is a horse for rough terrain and weather, bred by the Flints of the mountain clans. It will serve you well on our way to the Wall and onwards.”  
_‘Towards Bear Island’_ was what his siblings and father thought by those words. _‘Beyond the Wall’_ was what Rodrik and Ned knew they meant.

“What’s its name?” Ned asked, his eyes still fixed on his –his— horse.  
“It’s your horse.” Rodrik shrugged. “You name it.”  
“Snowdrift.” Ned whispered.


	15. Rickard II / Winterfell / 271 AC

Maester Walys had arrived two days ago, a fortnight after his middle son left. His absence was casting deep wounds into the castle, his two youngest were having night terrors ever since Ned rode off on his new horse. Now they came to him every day and asked about their brother and their mother. They had seldom asked him about Lyarra since her death, until now. Had Ned taken care of all their problems without informing him?

He did not know how to react to his children anymore, he noticed. They had all drifted so far apart from each other, Ned being more a father to Lya and Ben for the last year than he had been. How he had failed Lyarra… No, he could not focus on that, he now needed to be there for his children the way they needed him to, to go riding often and make time for them as often as possible.  
They had been pacified yesterday when a raven had come, penned by Rodrik and Ned from their last waystation. With a letter to return in hand Rickard was on his way to the maester’s tower. Apparently, Rodrik was not taking Ned straight north to the Wall but made a few small detours from the Kingsroad along the way. How they managed to arrive at Ironrath the same time as a betrothal party from House Branfield was a small surprise. 

It seemed his most important ironwood merchants were now building ties with the Reach. That would increase their trade with the south, they were always in need of good timber and fine lumber down there. Of course, the Whitehills would throw a fuss again about a perceived slight instead of actually taking care of their forests properly. If the two houses were any bigger their rivalry would be as famous as the Bracken-Blackwood feud.

Still, Old Man Forrester displayed good business acumen. And luck with his eldest, according to the letter little Gregor was most smitten with his intended and dutifully following his father’s missives. Rickard only hoped Brandon would come into any betrothal he arranged for him as graciously. Or Lyanna, if he could ever manage to make a lady out of her. 

With the Branfields’ connection to the Tyrells the Forresters would hook a big client. It’d work out best for them if they managed to trade with Luthor instead of his razor-tongued wife, though Rickard saw little chance of that happening. Regardless, the increased trade with the south would let the North prosper more and that was all that mattered.

After just a two days at Ironrath his good father and son were riding on for Long Lake. By now they had probably already passed it and were on their way to Last Hearth. The rest of the letter was just a litany of curses about the abysmal condition of the Kingsroad. Rickard had known it was bad but the last winter had apparently taken its toll as well. The roads in the south were being repaired by Tywin since he started his tenure as Hand. It was time that the road in the North was also being taken care of. Something to take up with the Hand when he went south to talk Aerys into rebuilding the Moat.

Preparations had to be made for that trip. In four moons, Rickard had decided, he would venture south to treat with the king and his Hand. The old maester would be dead by then –long dead, it could now only be a manner of days actually- and maester Walys would have become familiar with Winterfell. More importantly, Rickard would be familiar with the man himself by then. A southern flower, from the looks of it, not build for the harsh cold of the North, but not stupid or an imbecile if his first personal impression was anything to go by. A little too subservient maybe. 

Lord Wyman should be invited to administer Winterfell for the time, Lord Manderly would be thankful for his heir to receive some experience in ruling. It pained to think of someone to replace Lyarra in his absence as sitting ruler of Winterfell and the North.

Rickard arrived at the maester’s tower and went up to the rookery. The letter to Rodrik would go out to Last Hearth. The details inside were mostly a confirmation that all letters so far had been received. Some sentimental drabbles by Lya and Ben were added, asking Ned whether he’d had any great adventures so far. More important questions were included as well, regarding the state of the packhorses and the conduct of Ned with the banner men and during training. Rickard doubted his son had slacked off now that he was not at home anymore but that was, after all, what happened with Brandon at Lord Dustin’s.

Maester Walys was sitting at the bed of the old maester. As Rickard walked over he noticed the waxy paleness of the man lying in it, and his lack of breath. The gods had claimed the old servant. Rickard felt a stab of pain, the old man had been the maester since before Rickard was born. He lingered in silence for a second when Walys, now officially maester Walys of Winterfell, moved his paraphernalia to his desk. Rickard stepped up to the bed to close the dead man’s eyes.

Rickard sent a silent prayer to the old gods. “Did you find him like this, maester?”  
The shuffling at the desk stopped. “Just now, Lord Stark He had some milk of the poppy yesterday evening to help with his usual pains. He woke early today, eyes unseeing but clear of mind. His last order was for a runner to fetch you. The boy is probably looking for you at the great keep now.”  
Despite the grim circumstances Walys let out a small chuckle at that, even as Rickard could not bring himself to care enough to laugh. Or to mourn any longer, life went on. He stood up, handing his letter over to the new maester. “For your first task as new maester, send this letter to Lord Umber at Last Hearth.”

Rickard walked with him to the rookery and looked on as Walys struggled to find the caged raven labeled as the courier to Last Hearth. Once found the black bird was swiftly released, setting off towards where it would find Rickard’s son. Once again –as every so often when he ascended to the rookery- Rickard was struck by the utter absurdity of the old phrase, ‘Dark Wings, Dark Words”. Most letters were business, not good or bad, merely neutral. And the darkest words of all was usually brought by the white-winged variety, when they once again reinforced his house’s words.

They left the rookery together and as Rickard was about to leave the maester’s tower again, his eyes once more fell on the body of the old maester. “Your predecessor will be cremated in a short while, as was his wish. I trust you to arrange for this with the utmost respect, maester Walys. I hold great respect for your office and I came to hold affection for the old man. I hope for you to advise me as well, one getting a short confirmation from Walys Rickard descended down to the courtyard, stepping out into the gods’ wood where his children were wont to play. At least he would not have to change to proclaim the grave news, he had only ever worn black since Lyarra died.

The closer he walked to the heart tree the more his thoughts circled around his wife. The feel of her skin and the tickle of her breath. Her lips twitching between a pout and a smile, pulling him in for a kiss. Her streaming hair when riding in a full sprint, and him, always chasing after her while her laughter rang like chimes with the northern wind. He could almost hear it, right there in the gods’ wood. No, he could hear it, accompanied by tapping feet and thwacking sticks in a constant rhythm. 

And, gods, - Lyanna came into view, Lyarra come again, unbridled in her joy, jumping around the trees with Benjen, fighting with sticks. Riding leather breeches and linen shirt, her dark brown hair swaying with her every move as she danced around her younger brother, keeping him on the defensive. Their play-fighting was unrefined, of course, they were just three and four years old, but his daughter had a natural litheness to her that would make her an excellent fighter someday.

Rickard watched them for a while, not daring to interrupt. He knew, oh he knew, they would dutifully stop having fun as soon as they saw him. He knew he had grown more distant from his children, more unfeeling, and so they had taken their distance as well. He silently retreated a little and returned loudly calling for his pups, giving them time to hide their sticks and pretend to play hide-and-seek.  
“Father, what brings you here?” Sometimes little Lya still called him papa, but it was becoming less and less.  
“I have sent our letter to Ned, he will receive it when he arrives at Last Hearth. However, when I arrived at the rookery I found that the maester has passed away. His replacement Walys is preparing the ceremonies for his funeral.”

Benjen stared at him for a second than turned to his sister and whispered something into her ear, causing Lyanna’s eyes to redden. Rickard did not catch Benjen’s words but he did hear his daughter’s reply and it felt like just another pinprick into his heart.  
“Yes”, the quiet voice was heard, “the maester has gone to join mama.”

There was now holding the tears now, a dam had broken within both his children. Rickard felt himself move and scoop up the little ones into his arms, pressing their little bodies close. They were clinging onto him with a surprising strength, as if their life depended on it. They cried for a while, wetting his shirt until their tears ran dry and continued dry-heaving after.  
Once Rickard felt their grip slacken he pried their fingers free and asked them to come pay their respect to the old maester up in the tower. Climbing the stairs once more with his children he found Walys busying himself with rearranging his quarters, his dead predecessor layed out in his bed, now dressed in his work robes and with close cropped hair and beard. The man on the desk looked up as Rickard entered his quarters.

“Lord Stark, I have seen to the arrangements of the cremation. As is custom, he will be buried with his chain. Please tell which plot of land is used to entomb the castle’s dead. Am I right to assume that the little one behind you are your children and my future pupils?”

Maester Walys tussled Ben’s hair and turned to regard Lyanna after. He seemed to falter for a second, uncertainty crossed his face. Maybe a hint of disdain? Rickard was unsure, he barely knew the man and maesters were sworn to be unbiased and truthful advisors to their liege. Walys did not move to pat Lya’s head as well but turned to him, confusion obvious on his face and not a trace of disdain any more. He opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it before a sound escaped him. After a second he did start to speak, albeit haltingly:  
“Beg your pardon, my lord, I have of course heard about your wife but I assumed a woman was taking care of raising your daughter. I rarely see girls in breeches to be honest. In the south all the women wear skirts at your daughter’s age. Might I be introduced to the children’s tutors and primary caretakers so I can teach them in accordance with your customs?”

The man’s face was a blank mask, undoubtedly hiding some small discomfort at being confronted with customs of a different culture. The maester would learn, of course, his eagerness spoke for him. Having him coordinate with Old Nan and the other tutors. Old Nan had been acting as Lyanna’s governess but maybe another, younger lady would be advisable.

“You will be, maester, I will tell the others to come introduce themselves personally. Please, introduce yourself to Lyanna and Benjen in the meantime, they will be in your charge for general education in the sciences and history starting soon.”  
As Rickard made to leave he saw from the corner of his eye as maester Walys gave a kindly smile to the two little ones that Ben returned enthusiastically and Lya a little uncertainly.  
A good first impression, hopefully Lya warmed up to the man before Rickard went south.


	16. Ned VII / Last Hearth / 271 AC

The snowdrifts were piling up, here off the Kingsroad, and they were painting Last Hearth as a white winter wonderland, raised above the shallow hill it rested on. Even as the autumn had just been proclaimed the rolling blizzards were already more vicious than most that made it past the Neck in winter time. Rodrik and Ned had been lucky to make it to the northernmost great keep of Westeros hours before the storm hit its walls.

The name Last Hearth was well deserved, the great hall of the keep was illuminated by an enormous fireplace and braziers were spread everywhere in the whole castle. Still the people inside the keep were on edge, eager for the storm to end and to resume their search for Anya Umber. The girl had been taken in the last days of the last year and they had finally found a lead on where to find her. Now the snow would cover the last of the wildlings’ tracks and the search would be all the more difficult for it.

To think that Ned’s and Rodrik’s trip had started out so well. The ride north from Winterfell had been Ned’s greatest adventure so far. He had been to White Harbor, Barrowtown and Castle Cerwyn before, but during those voyages he had always kept to the established roads and travelled with his family and a larger party for protection. Not so on this trip with Rodrik. The detour to the Forresters had been born out of one of Rodrik’s whims when they had met the Branfield party on the Kingsroad. Ironrath had been the deepest that Ned had ever ventured into the Wolfswood.

Up until that day it had been always felt like a place like the gods’ wood, a forest with ancient trees that was nice to play in. He had never appreciated the vastness of the woods in the North. Getting lost in the woods had always been a foreign concept to him even if every winter it happened to a few old people that went out hunting. After spending a few nights under the canopy of the great sentinels and ironwood trees with the sound of howling wolves all around him Ned had become a lot more… respectful… of the hold that a vast emptiness could have on you. It was at the same time terrifying and awe-inspiring. 

Rodrik had shown him a few tricks to help him navigate in the deep woods. When they had come upon the Forresters’ keep the serene beauty of the fortress had given Ned pause for a second. Not stunned him into silence, how could anything if that was his natural state anyway, but the look of it nestled between outliers of the Northern mountains and ironwood trees taller than the castle itself was breathtaking. The Forresters were very accommodating to the surprising additional guests – and Gregor Forrester had been a little star struck when he recognized the Wandering Wolf. That had also been the first time that the Branfields had heard his grandfather’s moniker and recognized him from his exploits in Essos.

Ned had been surprised at that, that Rodrik was famed even in the Reach. His grandfather had tried to downplay his achievements and retreat from the commotion he caused but some men-at-arms at the keep had badgered him until he grew exasperated enough to invite them to a ‘friendly’ spar. Ned had not seen hides being tanned as hard before as on that day and he could not help laughing at the five fools that set on Rodrik together after he trounced enough people in single combat. Sadly, his mirthfulness had not gone unnoticed and Rodrik had dedicated the entire next day to increased stamina training. On the plus side, the level of respect he received from the people in the castle had increased tremendously as a result.

When they left the day after Gregor and his newly betrothed Elissa had seen them off together when they snuck out at dawn, when the rest of the keep had been in a drunken sleep due to the betrothal party. They had ridden off through the forest, just the two of them now, and the forest seemed all the more hauntingly pristine and solemn without a big group around them. The ride through the forest was just as fast as their travels on the Kingsroad, showing Ned how deeply in disrepair the old lifeline of the North was. They fed mostly on rabbit on their way to Long Lake where they sought shelter in a fishing village on the northern shore. A slick, icy rain accompanied them when they set off again while the temperatures were dropping again. The lake itself was covered in a thin sheen of frost, often breaking from the wind alone and refreezing, giving the surface a raw and jagged look. When the wind picked up and started whipping their faces they spurred their horses across the plains, just to arrive at Last Hearth before the brewing storm hit them.

Outriders had met them a few miles from Last Hearth in the flatlands. These people seemed bound for Last Hearth just as Ned and Rodrik were, not an escort to accompany them for the rest of the way. Such a thing would not have been unusual Rodrik had informed him. The vantage point of the castle allowed the Umbers to see approaching people from far away, the castle the first point of defense against wildling raiders that surpassed the Wall and ventured into the Seven Kingdoms. At least that was the case now that the New Gift and Queenscrown truly lay abandoned. Oddly, the Umbers profited the most from Good Queen Alysanne’s seizure of Stark lands. With the Watch’s inability to protect its subjects most smallfolk from there had now migrated into Umber lands where the lords looked after them and kept wildlings at bay. A small trickle of people came still, making the lands south of the Gift more populated than some other regions in the North, on par with the wider holdings of the Manderlys. It was truly fertile land up here, just as the gift, without the drawback of murderous and kidnapping savages that would snatch you without the protection of a lord or threat of his retribution.

The foreman of the outriders was a man of typical Umber appearance, great of stature with a full beard and cloaked in a single piece of white fur. His face was lined by worry and anger, not the usual look one adapts when receiving their liege lord’s son. Most impressive about this man, however, where his eyes. Or eye, rather, for one of them was missing and had been replaced with piece of stone, looking like raven feathers and charcoal with an oily sheen to it.

Ned saw recognition in his grandfather’s eyes as soon as they were able to make out the features of the approaching party. Shortly the Umber men pulled up alongside the two Starks and harshly barked out their names –Mors Umber for the leader, cloaked in the skin of a snow bear, his brother Hother by his side with a scraggly black beard and hollowed cheeks and another two men-at-arms in tracker gear, one of whom had a girl of about twelve years riding with him on his horse. The little girl did not introduce herself and seemed to have shaking fits, averting her gaze from everyone around her.  
Behind them, bound on a horse, was a thing that looked like a man. It must have been one a few days before. Now it just seemed to be a puzzle of flesh with wounds across his skin that lined up well with the patchwork of furs he was clothed in. The man was not conscious and his wounds were still bleeding, a nasty gash on his shoulder in particular.

The introductions were apparently mostly for Ned’s sake as Rodrik and the Umber brothers obviously knew one another. There was a sense of familiarity in Mors voice when he addressed Rodrik, tainted by barely veiled desperation.  
“Rod, good to see you. I don’t have time for pleasantries but consider yourself welcome to Last Hearth. The castle is in uproar at the moment. A moon ago my daughter disappeared. We sent out search parties and found a wildling host raiding on our smallfolk. A few villages have been ransacked and we caught several groups. We made that piece of shit you see tied to the horse talk.  
My Anya was taken by fucking wildling cunts and sent north, towards beyond the Wall with a splinter group of their host and some other girls they’ve taken. We were a larger group when we left but the other men with us were send to return the girls we already freed home. I’m picking up new men at Last Hearth to chase after the rest of the scum. Luckily they have no horse, if we leave as soon as possible we should catch up to them before they cross the New Gift. There won’t be a large reception for you, I apologize, but I trust you understand a father’s desperation.”  
Mors had a feverish look to him, almost manic, and spittle was flying from his mouth as he gave Rodrik a run down on the happenings in the castle before they reached the gate and were quickly let inside. 

Their reception to the castle was given by a boy of just three and ten, Jon Umber, the heir to Last Hearth, presenting them with bread and salt and receiving them as guests. Three and ten years Jon counted, but he was as tall as a man of seven and ten already. The exchange of greetings over the food was rather perfunctory, the tension palpable throughout the entire keep.  
Mors’ two sons Karl and Erik, both of similar stature as their father but with complete sets of eyes stood with Jon, both displaying deep unrest and anxiety over their sister. The rest of the castle was manned with only a few guards, women, children and the elderly. Most lords under Lord Jon Umber were out tending to their own keeps and smallfolk after the news of the invading wildlings had spread and most of the men at arms were out pursuing the wildling raiders. Now, however, the men were returning and there was a trickle of people coming in that was growing by the minute, the returning search parties and smallfolk seeking shelter from the approaching storm.

Mors was pacing the whole time, wroth with worry about his daughter. Rodrik had to physically shake him to break him out of the idea of riding for the New Gift despite the storm, keeping Lord Umber’s brother from what might have been his final folly. They were occupying Lord Jon’s solar making plans for the pursuit and rescue of little Anya. News had come in with the last riders before the storm that Lord Jon was staying at a village that was particularly hard hit by the raiders to help in the coming storm. And some point Rodrik and Hother went to the cells to gather information from the captive. Ned had wanted to come as well. Rodrik had forbidden him, however, and when he returned an hour later unperturbed but with a decidedly even more gaunt and pale Hother, Ned somehow knew it was the right decision to remain behind.

Mors only asked if they had all the information they needed now, which Rodrik simply confirmed while Hother muttered that even a Bolton would blanch at the way the information was _‘gathered’_. At least the man was still alive to be properly executed, Hother’s training at the citadel had provided him with the knowledge to keep a man alive, even if he had not learned it to prolong torture sessions.  
Ned did not have it in him to care for the wildling savage at that point. He had sat down to talk with the little girl stuck in catatonia, Tya, and managed to get her to talk. He now wished he hadn’t. For the first time he was glad his mother had died the way she had, quickly. Not raped, not tortured. Tya’s brother, only a year older than her, had been gutted, as well as her father. One of the raiders had caught her in the same room as her mother and would have taken her, too. To only be kept from rape because despoiling her would _‘lower the value of the goods’_ was lucky. Sadly, her mother did not need that consideration anymore and they had not taken her from their chamber before ripping her mother’s dress apart. Tya did not really talk much further, she only babbled senselessly and cried dry tears.

When Mors and Hother asked for volunteers to hunt down the rest of the raiders, Ned had been the first to step forward. Rodrik put his hand on his shoulder when he came to stand beside, giving his support without question. That helped quell the looks of the guardsmen as more and more people joined this strange eight-year-old. Jon - the heir, not the still absent lord – as well as the brothers Karl and Erik joined along with a good thirty men on horse back. More than enough to hunt down the same amount of wildling animals on foot that were dragging along a good dozen young girls to Queenscrown and on, to sell to slavers once they escaped the reach of the Umber lords.

The storm raged the whole night and only abated at dawn. All tracks that the kidnappers could have left behind were now definitely wiped out.  
The rescue party with Rodrik and Ned set of into the beautiful winter wonderland to paint the pristine white snow red in the name of justice or vengeance. Whichever they came quick enough to deliver.


	17. Jon Umber I / Queenscrown / 271 AC

After riding from Last Hearth to Queenscrown with the the Wandering Wolf and his grandson Eddard Stark Jon Umber had come to know two things. The little Starkling was fucking intense. Also, he obviously had an ass made of pure steel. An eight-year-old should not be able to ride for days at a pace that set your rear skin on blistering fire. Not a word of complaint from the little pup while Jon himself was picking up more and more curse words each day from uncle Hother’s infinite repertoire. Actually, nary a word at all passed the little one’s word and Jon might have thought him mute if not for the rare sentences passed between the two Starks.

The Wandering Wolf was everything uncle Mors had painted him as and more, an insurmountable fighter and dashing horseman, a keen strategist and an overall monster. He was also jovial, a good guy to share ale and a laugh with and the apparently only person that could make uncle Hother blush with his cussing. Then again, the man, the legend, would turn five and fourty this year, so he had had decades to cultivate his skills. Impressive still, but like everyone in the camp, Jon was more astounded by Eddard fucking Stark, an eight-year-old boy. Not just his riding skills were impressive and his silence and stare intimidating (something no man younger or smaller than him had any right to be), the guy rose earlier than anyone else at camp to train dodging and to spar with his grandfather in a disturbing amount of weapons with a disturbing amount of proficiency. Not that the little boy would best him with a sword, far from it, but the eight-year-old Eddard would have easily been able to beat up eleven-year-old Jon with a hand behind his back. And with his skills with bow and arrow and his throwing knives, a prepared Eddard was already a deadly Eddard now. No wonder the Starks held the North for 8.000 years, Jon had to wonder if all of them were as impressive as the two he now knew. The others in the party were giving the boy a wide berth, especially after he asked if he could help _‘question the next wildling animal they captured’_. Mors adored him, though, and Karl and Erik were already treating the little man like a brother. He might be that to them someday, a brother, Mors had already offered his daughter as a betrothed if he helped rescue Anya.

That had been the only time Jon had seen Eddard Stark speechless instead of silent, then the little man went scarlet red and started stammering. It was good to see that there was a piece of a normal eight-year-old in the young Stark. Before Eddard could answer properly Rodrik Stark had cut in, told uncle Mors off for embarrassing his grandson and then declined the proposal as he had been charged with securing an advantageous match with some southern lass to further Lord Stark’s ambition in the south.

The most curious and adorable thing had been Eddard Stark seeking out uncle Mors later that day, telling him if it was his choice he would marry for love like his parents and his mother’s parents and if he fell in love with Anya he would beleaguer Rodrik to help him, with the support of his sister Lyanna. The two things Jon understood from that conversation was that, one, Eddard Stark would grow up to be the best man he would ever know and, two, Mors and his sons would follow him until their death no matter who sat reigning in Winterfell. More than Lord Stark now, more than Lord Brandon when he inherited the position. Also, Rodrik Stark, the most fearsome men in the North and maybe all of Westeros, was a big softie that could not deny anything to his granddaughter. If she wasn’t only four years old at the moment and Jon was supposed to marry within the next five years and start having children, she would have been a good candidate for a wife just from that fact.

Karl and Erik would not leave Eddard alone after that, clinging to his heels like puppies. Due to that they were the first that Rodrik invited to through pebbles at Eddard during his dodging training. Timid in their throws at first, they quickly started throwing in earnest when Rodrik threw a few rocks their way after they were very obviously not making an effort of hitting Eddard. Still the Starkling proved a marvel and the rock throwers increased to include him the day they reached Queenscrown. It had only been a scant ten days after leaving Last Hearth, and that with several detours to check on villages and holdfasts in the area.

Traveling the New Gift was saddening like always. Fertile lands, as far as the eye could see, lying fallow as people were driven south. How many people this place could have fed, how many old ones could have been spared from going hunting in the depth of winter. Fucking wildling cunts. They were truly a plague, Eddard Stark had the right of that.

The men turned in for an early rest at Queenscrown, well deserved after the harsh riding. They had arrived already at noon after rising early but an exhausted host could fail even against outnumbered wildlings. Jon would have hit the sack early as well, had it not been for the sound of sparring in the yard that showed, once again, that the Starks were intense. With asses made of steel. They also had to have a good dose of insanity somewhere in their heads.

Looking over to the courtyard of the old inn on the shore he could see his cousins and uncles emulating the Starks, training beside them. At one point all his four relatives attacked Rodrik together while Eddard was training a little of with a truly vicious looking contraption of mace, chain and blade. While the young Stark was twirling the chains in faster and more complicated figures the older one was handily trouncing Mors, Hother, Karl and Erik. Usually Mors was able to cover his blind spot but not today, not against the Wandering Wolf. So entranced was Jon in the display of masterful blade work, Rodrik fighting with a sword and dagger combination against an onset of two great swords, an axe and a mace, that he did not notice Eddard changing his training weapon to bow and arrows until a blunt tipped arrow hit the stony window frame above his face and dropped harmlessly onto his head.

All four Umber men instantly stopped mid-spar, a mistake that Rodrik punished without mercy, as Eddard addressed him from the courtyard.  
“Lord Jon, seeing as my grandfather will not leave me with any sparring partners, are you willing to go for a bout?”

Right he was, the little lordling, the Wandering Wolf was unlikely to leave his cousins and uncles in fighting or sparring fit when he was through with them. Also, for that little scare Eddard Stark deserved a beating and he practically asked for it. Snapping the offending arrow, Jon went down and crossed the winding causeway to the abandoned village were Eddard was waiting in the on the open ground. Mors, Hother, Erik and Karl were groaning on the ground as Rodrik was lecturing Eddard.

“Lord Jon, I apologize for shooting at the window frame above your head with _only my poor archery skills_ , that are now suddenly in doubt by my noble mentor. I did not mean to startle you.”  
The second part sounded sincere. For the first part, Eddard Stark wore such a faked expression of looking chastised that all Rodrik could do was grumbling about an _‘insolent whelp’_ while ruffling his head.

Jon laughed. Loud, booming as all his friends told him he did. He laughed truly for the first time since Anya had been taken, and after a second his cousins joined him with uncle Hother, before, finally, even uncle Mors could not hold it anymore. Neither of them had seen, nor even expected, a spunky side to Eddard Stark before. Their laughter would not abate for some time, Jon sat down to join the others lying on the ground who were tossing and turning in mirth.

Rising again after the final chuckles had ceased, Jon grabbed a blunted great sword that Mors had taken along on Rodrik’s instruction and turned to regard his opponent.  
“You know, Lord Eddard, I’m much more comfortable with people calling me Jon. Lord Jon is my father.”  
“Call me Ned.” With that Eddard Stark – Ned – brandished two blunted daggers and charged in a half crouch towards him, keeping his feet apart to allow for quick movement to the sides.

Jon was aiming for a bisecting swing but was only used to dealing with people of Umber or normal proportion so he immediately saw that the young boy could easily duck under his swing. He awkwardly changed his weapon’s course mid swing while retreating backwards, his larger steps allowing him to widen the distance again. Little bugger was fast, too. The size was a problem, overhead swings would be practically useless in this fight as Ned could see the sword coming from far away and Jon needed to overextend on those strikes to threaten his diminutive sparring partner. So Jon opted for low sweeping striges while steadily advancing, targeting a Ned’s legs in a full on crouch. It was not a comfortable position to fight in, Jon discovered.

Ned was a vision, too, the little boy bouncing around at the edge of his reach, weaving left to right and right to left, falling in a roll and bobbing up and down in his half crouch. Not for a single second did both of his feet leave the ground at the same time. His footwork was good, his perception of Jon’s reach was impeccable and Jon had no idea how good he was with those two knives of his. Not a single clash of weapons had occurred yet both his cousins were watching with rapt attention and his even his uncles and Rodrik had stopped to observe them.

It continued this way for minutes. Jon had always been assured of his stamina yet this little boy was besting him in endurance, leading him around for a merry chase. Jon felt his arms grow heavy. This was not a fight, Jon realized, it was a dance to the little one. Not a game, but the dance between an agile predator and a hulking aurochs. Jon could not lose. He needed to pull Ned in to attack him and retaliate before the Starkling stepped too far into his range. Jon was not one for feints in fighting. He knew how to spot them of course, but as an Umber giant one did not need to resort to quick feints all that much because few fighters trained for mobility and dodging exclusively. This was the North, not Braavos, keeping warm alone necessitated restrictive clothing. This did not seem to apply for the two Starks, both cloaked in furs, but obviously for comfort and availability, not for necessity. Rodrik and Ned were wearing far too few furs in his opinion. Winter in their blood, truly the Kings of Winter. Jon had not understood when his father told him the Starks were of Winter. Not truly, but now he did, now he saw. Ned Stark, unperturbed by the cold and five years younger than him, led him around by the nose. It would have been disgraceful were it any other boy, no, man, but Jon would not feel ashamed. And he still had fight left in him, enough for gamble as well.

He did not stop his attacks. He got slower. His attacks lacked in vigor, losing strength at the pace of normal men. Ned had not fought an Umber before, and it showed. While Jon was getting exhausted, he was not as exhausted as he made himself look. Rodrik, standing behind his grandson, obviously noticed, a large grin stretching his face. Ned did not. After another overextended swing, Ned decided to charge. Head first into Jon’s abruptly raised knee. A groan followed, along with a strike to his leg and a crumbling Ned.

“You lost, pup. Told you so.” Rodrik was still smiling.  
“I opened his the main artery in his leg. Jon would bleed out.” Ned was groaning between the words.  
“Yes. You’d still be dead. Only an idiot trades his life for his enemies. Better to life to kill another day. Killing each other does not make a tie out of losing.”  
The Wandering Wolf truly was strange at times. _‘Kill another day’_ , not fight another day. Truly a predator. Better to become good friends with his pup. 

Jon stretched out his hand to the boy – the man – on the floor.  
“You also wouldn’t fight me with daggers against a great sword on an open field. Don’t pretend to be daft, Ned, I won against you but it’s not like I won the fight. Like you said, bleeding out.”  
Ned smiled at that. Huh. His smile really mirrored the wolf sigil stitched to his sleeve. Whoever did that must really like embroidery. And Ned. Probably his late mother.

With everyone exhausted or concussed after the sparring session, minus Rodrik, of course, who seemed as fit as before, Jon suggested convening under the stars on the top of Queenscrown with some nice, steaming spiced ale. The three old ones quickly agreed and pulled the three younger ones along.

Up on the tower most did not last long. Erik and Karl were the first to turn in for the night and at some point Mors, Rodrik and Hother started a drinking competition. Ned had a nice set of dice on him so they could liven it up but declined joining in the competition himself. , While Jon was tempted to compete, he knew Hother would still easily out-drink him even if the dice favored him. The other two were no match for his youngest uncle as well, as he came to see that night. It was the first time he saw Rodrik being bested, in any type of contest so far. By the look on Ned’s face, the feeling was shared.

It was just the two of them now. Hother was the only one strong and sober enough to help Mors and Rodrik down the stairs and he did not bother to return. Ned was sitting on the rim, his legs dangling off the tower and looking up at the stars. He was quiet again, like most of the night, and for the first time Jon could say that the boy was not disconcerting in his silence but truly seemed comfortable and welcoming. Jon understood, suddenly, that Ned owned his silences and was not turning them against him anymore. That they had really become friends.

He sat down next to the Starkling and held up his cup, clinking together before they both nursed the hot ale. Jon knew he did not need to breach the quiet. It was something he seldom felt. His father called him boisterous, and he was right. He was surprised when Ned broke the silence, instead.  
“Have you ever met a wildling that was a decent sort? A man of the free folk? I’ve read of them; I just can’t picture one anymore. Not since I spoke with Tya.”

Ah, the girl from the smallfolk. Poor lass. Jon did not have to think. He’d met raiders aplenty, of course, but no upstanding free folk until last year. It had been another of the raids and Jon had raged against the wildling vermin, the scum of Westeros, all the beasts beyond the Wall. He’d also had his Tya. Alys, her name had been. She had not been unspoiled, she’d been 16 already and married. No reason to keep her pure for the slavers. Jon had burst into the room while the raider was still rutting her, her husband sitting against the wall with his heart on his sleeve. Fucking scum had fancied himself another Bael the Bard.

That had been the first man Jon had killed. On his first foray against raiders. He’d tried to do something, after, he did not know what he tried anymore, but it obviously wasn’t enough. Alys had seemed to return to normal, at times. They had taken her in at Last Hearth as the whole hamlet had been torched. Between her screaming fits and her night terrors Alys had been normal, only broken eyes hinting at her despair. Until she jumped from the walls of Last Hearth, her head shattering like overripe fruit when she had miscarried the baby her husband had left her. And Jon had raged like never before. He spat out over the towers edge at the memory, his mouth turning to ash.

“Aye. I’ve seen a lass that’s been dealt like yours. Worse. I was angry, furious. Killed my first man the day I met her. The day she took her own life I was shattered. All the fucking cunts north of the wall could have died that day, women and children included, I’d have fucking celebrated. I’d read of the good ones, too. Wyllis is standard reading up here, lets us know there are humans up north as well, even when it’s easy to forget sometimes.  
Hother took me to Whitetree, a village just north of castle black. He wasn’t the right sort for it, in my opinion. The Citadel taught him contempt. Mors hates ‘em more though, spent his whole life fighting them. He’d rather spit than look at ‘em. Now, I think it’ll be worse. He’ll never forgive the free folk for what the wildlings’ve done to him. However, I met folks just like us up there. Four families, nice people. They’re also afraid of the raiders. Everyone is, free folk despise them, fucking slavers.”

Jon Umber finished his ale with a deep gulp. Ned Stark did, too. Silence embraced them again. Jon took in his neighbor for a second. Realization washed over him, he finally placed those eyes.  
But that was impossible, Ned had turned eight not too long ago. There was no denying the look though.  
“You’ve killed, too.” It was a statement. Confirmation followed as Ned looked at him and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Mine was a rapist, a wildling beast. I came upon him in the act and the blood that splattered when I split his skull drenched the torn bits of Alys’ dress red. Never regretted killing him, only that I was too late. I’ll never be able to forget it though.”  
Jon did not know why he shared that. Few knew, Alys asked him to keep it quiet. She did not want the pity. Jon had acquiesced. Much good it did her.

Ned stood up and returned with the rest of the ale, still warm from the canteen on the brazier, even though the fire had gone out some time ago. He filled both their cups, they shared a short ‘To Alys’ and finished their drinks straight away. Ned refilled the mugs once more, emptying the canteen.

“My mother died when a deserter of the Night’s Watch slipped free from the block and tried to take me hostage, to kill me, I don’t actually know. I was to witness my first execution. Mother stepped in front of me and took a knife to the neck.”  
People only knew Lady Stark was dead. These sordid details had not been shared. Even as Jon had accepted their friendship earlier he had not realized the amount of trust this implied for Ned. Now he did.  
Jon had not heard people speak so tonelessly before. Alys had a hollow voice before her child died in her womb, despair and death tinging her tongue afterwards. Ned was quiet. Jon did not have to strain to listen, though. Once again, all was quiet as at Ned’s command with only his whispers piercing through the night

“I slit the deserter’s throat with his own knife and put him down like the rabid dog he was, telling him he was not worthy of my remembrance. I succeeded at that. I cannot for the life of me recall his face. Only his hand, his knife and his breaking eyes as he choked on his blood.”  
Ned finished his ale after clinking with cups with him and Jon found his hands trembling as he followed suit. There was no talking between them anymore and they retired soon after, not even saying good night to each other, simply giving each other a nod in understanding. Still Jon lay awake for a long time that night.

He started the day knowing two things, he ended the night knowing three.  
The little Starkling was fucking intense. He had a body made of pure steel. And Jon Umber was glad that he was Ned Starks friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slightly changed chapters 4 and 12, nothing big that is gonna impact the story all that much.  
> Until 273 AC at least.  
> The other change is merely cosmetic, to flesh out the scene more.  
> Read at your own peril.
> 
> (Seriously though, I'd just forgotten a seed from my framework that I had wanted to plant. You're not missing much if you don't go back and the actual throwback will not come before another good 15+ chapters are through, even with the way chapters are growing in length right now.)


	18. Rodrik VII / Castle Black / 271 AC

One of the tracks had led them straight to the Wall, to Oakenshield. They had found the first remnants of a camp of the raiders a day after Queenscrown. It must've been where they weathered the storm. The sight of 14 charred corpses could cure the worst of hangovers. Not the first time that Rodrik got to know this, but still the remainder was rather unpleasant. Erik even threw up without having a drink too much the night before. The number of the raiders was now down to 23, with only seven hostages to care for as the size of the burnt bodies showed.  
One less than a dozen of those raiders had headed east from the camp, escorting four of the girls toward the Bay of Seals. The second split of the group occurred at the Wall with four climbers and one hostage crossing at Oakenshield itself while the rest headed along the Wall on the southern side to reach the harbor at Eastwatch. Gods, how the Watch had declined, that the wildlings grew brazen enough to use the harbor the Watch itself owned to escape their clutch with kidnapped girls.

Their party had split apart as well, with Jon and Hother taking the largest host of 15 men to chase after the first splinter of the raiders and Mors with Erik and another ten after the second. Rodrik was a little glad that Hother left with the first group, he did not think he could stomach another drinking round with the gaunt beast. A man that thin did not deserve such an iron liver. Rodrik had large doubts how much studying Whoresbane actually did down in Oldtown. Mors and Rodrik had agreed that Rodrik, Ned and Karl would double back to Castle Black to get a raven on the way to Eastwatch, to get the support of the brothers of the Watch stationed there to catch the two southern raiding parties in a pincer attack.  
The last eight of their group would then pursue the last four raiders north of the Wall. Rodrik was fairly certain that the Umber girl was in the last group, she was the only highborn girl of the raid and would bring prestige to the raiders when kidnapped as a bride and not seen as a girl meant for the slavers. Still, Mors had the right of it when he went after the group south of the Wall and entrusted Rodrik with Karl. Neither Erik nor him were old and able enough to lead a host and Rodrik and Ned had, after all, business north of the Wall. Now they even had a reason to go beyond without climbing over in the night and could be open to Rickard about their trek. In a morbid way the kidnappers were helping Ned and Rodrik.

Commander Qargyle had been very accommodating to their group since they arrived yesterday and though they had seen the Wall shortly after entering Brandon’s Gift behind Queenscrown in the distance and at Oakenshield up close, Ned had been awed at his first contact with the brothers of the Watch. At least until he took the measure of the whole of them. Rapers, thieves, murderers and petty criminals. Nary a good man in between. Ned was lucky that they did not make the way through Mole’s Town, that pile of filth would have shattered any good conception he’d had of the Watch.

At least Qorgyle impersonated part of the hero a boy of the North expected of a Watchman, a wicked spear fighter and stalwart Commander. He steered the Watch well, as well as possible seeing the dismal state of the brotherhood. The Moat, the roads, the Wall, so much of the North was in decline. Targaryen rule did not become them, at least not since the Cregan. Too many resources going south since the Dance, with none coming back up. The symptomatic indifference to the First Men was unbecoming of their kings. Maybe Rickard’s machinations could change things for the better.

Ned was up in the rookery handing over Rodrik’s letters for Rickard and the captain of Eastwatch to maester Aemon, along with letters to all his siblings that he penned himself. Rodrik doubted that Brandon would give any care to the letter as it mostly detailed Ned’s opinion on ‘Passages of the Dead’ but seeing from Lyanna’s scrawling mail his younger siblings were awed and appreciative of every single word Ned put to paper. Lya and Ben would be going green with envy, imagining their brother on a hunt for wildling raiders in a foreign land beyond the borders of their world. Hopefully they would never see the reality that was a wildling raid the way Ned had to.

During lunch with Qorgyle Rodrik came to talking about their plans for the pursuit of the remaining raiders. One of the patrols going to Eastwatch had ridden of ahead of schedule once they came to know of the eight raiders and two hostages making their way along the southern side of the Wall to enforce Mors’ group in ambushing them. Sadly, all of the rangers were out on patrol, a larger range or recuperating at the moment after a recent return and could not join them on the morrow. After contemplating for a second, Qorgyle spoke to him again after declining him the company of a ranger.  
“I cannot send a ranger with you, Stark, but if you wait for noon tomorrow the best tracker of the free folk will come to the Wall to trade with us. If you hold up on setting of with the first light, you may hire him to help you with your search. You are in luck; it has been six months that he has last graced us with a visit.”

“That does sound tempting, but how do you know he arrives tomorrow, Commander? I find it hard to believe the man will be able to predict his visits so far ahead of time that you know to the day when he will come here again after such a long absence. It is not like they have ravens north of the Wall that he can send to warn of his impending visit.”

A small smile played on Qorgyle lip, his dark Rhoynish eyes twinkling.  
“A snow falcon came in earlier today, straight into the rookery. Its name is Cloudsoar, but that’s not the name that’s important when it comes to that falcon. No, the one you want to remember is Haggon Beastfriend. He comes by every now and then with the skins of animals that would not let him wear them while they were still alive.”

Rodrik’s eyes narrowed. “A warg. You want to send us along with a person that’s barely human in his head anymore if he’s powerful enough to claim a name for himself. Is he that trustworthy?"  
“Oh, Haggon’s an alright sort, he’s been trading with us for years. Usually comes around every two to three months but word had not come from him in a long while so we thought he’d gone and died his true death. Most powerful warg between the Wall and Always Winter, that man knows true discipline. Build his own holdfast somewhere in the Haunted Forest. Man’s an army to himself and a friend of the Watch. Some spearwife of the Hornfoots half gored him once and a sympathetic ranger of ours patched him up after the half-dead man lead him to his body while warging in a deer. He’s got his falcon and his owl to track whatever he hunts at day and at night. And the Stark name carries weight everywhere in the North, even Beyond-the-Wall. He’ll help you, just don’t expect him to love you. Too many times did the Starks best the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall when the might of the Watch would not suffice.”

Rodrik did not have to ponder long on the matter. “As you vouch for him, I’ll try hiring him. We’ll be taking advantage of your generosity here at Castle Black a little longer. I’ll go inform the others of the change in plans and I’ll warn them not to lash out at the warg.”

Rodrik rose from the table and sought out the others in the common hall, where they were taking their meal with the brotherhood. Karl was apprehensive at first, but the seven and ten year old man deferred to Rodrik’s leadership on the matter. Two of their companions, the smallest ones among the Umber men at ‘only’ six feet tall, Merry and Pippin, decided to loudly voice their displeasure while the other three merely grumbled about ‘the worst savages among the wildlings, animal fuckers and half-beasts’ as being their new bed mates. Rodrik soundly decked Merry and Pippin on their ears, treating them like the misbehaving children they acted as. That got them to quiet down fast and the grumbling at table became quieter as well.

Ned had not sat at the table with the others, according to Karl he had absconded to the library with maester Aemon after his trip to the rookery. Rodrik found him surrounded by tomes and scrolls, turning page after page across from the old maester who was doing the same. Torches illuminated the dry cellar they were in, with a slow-burning cutting of ironwood casting its blue light upon the books for them to read. Rodrik knocked on the table as not to startle them and the maester cast his misty violet eyes at him. The onset of weakening eyes, not a surprise in a man over 70, still, the decline of Aemon Targaryen’s eyesight was a greater loss than most archmaesters going blind all of a sudden. Aegon the Unlikely had been a good king, but not one to endear his family to the realm’s people of import. His reforms were the exact reason people were willing to release the maester in front of him from his vows at the Great Council of 233. Sadly, it was not to be. The next Targaryen to call a Great Council would have to concede a great many things to the lords of the realm after that last precedent.

“Lord Rodrik, I must say your young student here is a better help than my three stewards double his age combined. I’ve never seen a boy more eager to learn and more recipient to knowledge at his age. It would be a great boon to him to let him learn at the Citadel for some time.”

“You are right, maester Aemon. It will be of great help to him when we stop in Oldtown for a year.”  
Rickard had to chuckle at the way Ned’s eyes lit up at the new information. He had not been forthcoming with his travel plans so far and Ned was always inquisitive about possible destinations along their tour.  
“May I ask what the pup is helping you with at the moment? The wealth of the library of the Night’s Watch is astounding every time, if the subject of your search is not time sensitive I am sure I could find a book for him that fits into his required reading. Knowledge on free folk culture would help before we leave again tomorrow.”

Aemon chuckled as well, his smile reaching his eyes as he took in the young studious boy.  
“I am willing to give him a copy of _‘History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall’_ to take with him tomorrow. We have three copies of it on hand here but not a single one of _‘Passages of the Dead’_. From what I heard, Ned here has taken all he can from the book and I see no reason why it should weigh you down on your further travels. “

Rodrik agreed to the circumvented question for a book exchange. _‘History’_ held some insight by Herryk but more importantly included runic originals and good Common Tongue translations of songs of the free folk. Songs that survived long enough up here were very likely to old wisdom within them. Ned’s knowledge on the Old Tongue, free folk culture and history would take a leap with the book

“As to the matter he’s been helping me with. I have recently been in contact with my great-grandnephew, a boy of eleven. I gave the letter he last sent me to your boy to read, he was most surprised that the crown prince also has an interest in matters magical, much like he has been learning about himself. He agreed to help me search some tomes for a specific prophecy Rhaegar has been researching recently.”

Prophecies. Gods damn them, Ned had not been warned yet. Rodrik felt himself tense, saw Aemon respond to his change in posture with a wariness in his eyes. Rodrik inspected the maester’s chain for a second, surprised not to see a Valyrian steel link among the many metals. Had the Targaryens forgotten so much? Or had they simply discarded their old knowledge? What blind fools they were!  
“Maester Targaryen. I would appreciate if you did not grant my grandson access to dangerous knowledge without at least notifying me before. I see magic was not of your studies at the Citadel, it would be advisable that you ask for guidance on a field of study as treacherous as prophecies before you pick up bad habits in the search for answers among them. Eddard.”  
Rodrik snapped his head to his grandson who sat at attention, his grey eyes hard and cold at the rare address. “This is an order, you will not research prophecies, ever. Am I understood?”

Ned complied and levelled Rodrik with a look of his own, absolute acceptance and trust within. “Ok. I will not. Why?”

Rodrik felt himself relax, the disaster averted. Ned was not questioning his order, merely trying to understand his reasoning. Aemon Targaryen, the smart fool was looking at him as if he had turned into dragon with three heads, surprised at the outburst and neither accepting nor trusting like Ned. No matter, the one to impress the importance of signs and portents on was his grandson, not the maester of Night’s Watch. Rodrik spoke in warning, and Eddard listened.

“Prophecies have inherent dangers to them, one upon being spoken, one upon being heard, one upon being interpreted and one upon being fulfilled. To understand them, there are a few things to note. Are the prophecies coming from a charlatan or a true seer? Is the prophecy directed at a person specifically or do they predict great destiny to be fulfilled by someone in the future?  
If the prophecy comes from an untrustworthy source, a dubious book or a fraud trying to trick you, it may make you live according to words worth less than a gust of air. Or it can make you distrust prophecies in general, leading you to ignore signs from dangers long foretold and dismiss clear warnings because you’ve lost the belief in things long hidden but not forgotten.”  
Luckily, there were more frauds around nowadays than true prophets or people cursed and trained with the gift of green sight. Having the rabble discard the belief in the old ways had been increasing since the first Andals set their feet on Westerosi shore. Better they held disbelief toward prophecy rather than disabuse it for its boons and suffer the consequences.

“A true prophecy can come over a person with the gift in three ways. Someone pays a due to have their fortune told. A foolish notion, when you hear a prophecy about yourself a die is cast and what you hear comes true. You rob yourself of choice. These prophecies are the most common. Only idiots and ignorants ask for a prophecy.  
Another way a direct prophecy can be given is if the recipient has a fate in store for him that is great and terrible. There will be magic pulse, an unwitting catalyst. The seer will speak in trance of the paths lie before the fated. There will be a choice, because providence is not cruel to its chosen. The choice will be neither obvious nor easy, but there will be a choice. The people to receive these prophecies are to be pitied, watched and admired.”  
Two choices were the most common. Common being a very stretched term here, these people rarely appeared. As far as Rodrik knew the first shadow binder had been given three choices, whereas the first and the last god-emperors of Yi Ti both only had two. The more choices a person had the greater and more terrible their destiny could be. The most in the history of, well, history, had been four choices to Rodrik’s knowledge. And while Brandon the Builder was a man to aspire to be, his life had not been gentle and good. Only great.

“Lastly, a seer may dream of a calamity yet to come. A hero to weather the storm. A challenge for men to stand against together. There's only one thing that is certain about this kind of prophecy: That it will be fulfilled. There is no set time. However, people in their will apply these prophecies to themselves. They will twist the conditions to fit them. They will twist themselves to fit the condition. They will twist others to fit the condition. That is doing others an unkindness.  
But the worst? They might succeed. The prophesied event will come to past, but if enough conditions are met it will be triggered prematurely. What is the better option, for a known calamity to come about naturally with a failsafe in place or for it the event to come prematurely to a world unprepared to satisfy the ego of a person wishing to be significant? Therefore, stay away from prophecies. Count yourself lucky if they stay away from you.”

Ned closed all the books around him rather quickly. After silently handing over his copy of _‘Passages’_ he scurried out the door after picking up his new copy of _‘History’_ from the shelf that held duplicate copies in the library. After seeing him off Rodrik turned to regard maester Aemon again, who made to speak.  
“I apologize for exposing your nephew to these dangers. I will caution Rhaegar about the dangers you spoke of. While I am not yet convinced of the validity of prophecies, your warnings of them seem logical should the knowledge prove to be true. Is it truly that treacherous to indulge in these prophecies, though?”

“Yes maester, the danger exists, even if remote. However, looking through old general prophecies is unlikely to pose immediate peril. Still, as Crown Prince your great-grandnephew may have access to enough resources to twist the world to fit a prophecy. Down that path lies sorrow and pain. Do reach out to the Citadel. I hear the position of archmaester of magic is empty at the moment but maester Marwyn could be an asset in your search. If the Citadel would bother about the subject, they would hasten him to come back from Essos to take up the mask. Last I heard of him he sailed for Asshai four years ago and was scheduled to return this year. It has just started, but maybe he has already returned.  
As for you and your nephew, I recommend reading the commentaries on the treacherous nature of prophecies that Gorghan of Old Ghis penned. You might know his most famous proverb: ‘Prophecy will bite of your prick every time.’”

The two learned men shared another chuckle. Rodrik stood up to follow Ned upstairs and inform him of their new plans with Haggon the warg. Despite it being Ned’s first hands-on meeting with an actual practitioner of magic it had fallen on the wayside during their talks of prophecies. On his way out Rodrik once more decided to help the two Targaryens learn caution.  
“Maester Aemon, I truly recommend that you and young Rhaegar take Gorghan’s words to heart. His writing is insightful and a delight to read, even if the book as an astonishing amount of comparisons using rather salacious women. And who knows, in a few years Prince Rhaegar might lose all interest in matters of prophecy. Maybe, after reading Gorghan, he’ll even start thinking with his dick a little. A prince could do worse things.”

Rodrik’s grin at his own jape slowly lapsed while he made his way up the stairs as he left the library.  
He could never imagine his little jest becoming the truth, way down the line. Nor that it actually would be the worst thing the prince could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full quote on Gorghan of Old Ghis comes from Marwyn in 'A Feast for Crows':
> 
> "Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is . . . and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy, said Gorghan. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time."


	19. Aemon / Letter / 271 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually wanted this to be chapter 18.5. But then I discovered that was not possible in AO3.  
> Chapter length will return to normal with the next chapter (the REAL chapter 19).

>   
>  My dear Rhaegar,
> 
> I was, and still am, overjoyed to have received your letter. Only your mother still writes me at times and I cherish each of those letters. When she told me your eye’s were of a color with my brother Egg. When he was your age he travelled the countryside bald and in rough hemp clothes. I still remember him visiting me at Oldtown during my studies. I would love to see you and tell you all the stories your grandfather and great-grandfather couldn’t.
> 
> I believe a visit to Oldtown could help you with your search regarding the prophecy of the prince that was promised. Up here at Castle Black there is only scant information regarding that prophecy to be found. I have, however, recently talked with a travelled man of the North who told me that I could find many parallels in the stories of the last hero, a heroic figure from this region that is shrouded in the legends of the Dawn Age. I will try to research more on the subject and send you the information I find.
> 
> The man I mentioned might be known to you, by name at least. It is the Wandering Wolf, Rodrik Stark, the greatest fighter in the North. I hear you have recently stepped into the world of knights under the tutelage of Ser Barristan. A good choice, the man is exceptional with the sword and a stalwart, honest and just man. I do not know whether he could prevail against Rodrik Stark, though. I have seen him train his grandson and spar with members of the Night’s Watch and I’ve never witnessed a warrior that could compare. Besides his martial prowess he is also an intriguing conversationalist. He gave me interesting advice on prophecies, though partially clouded by base Northern prejudice and superstition I believe.
> 
> He put forward that both of us read a book by Gorghan of Old Ghis, ‘On Prophecies’. I have found a copy in the castle of the library and agree with the value of the books contents. However, I would ask that you wait a few years to take it up. The language is not fit for a boy of one and ten, maybe read it when you are fourteen. It is not that I want to shield you from coarse language, I just fear that a man as eloquent as Gorghan might sway you with his views on the fairer sex. Let’s just say, in his book it is anything but fair and it may taint your education on them. Your mother would be very wroth with me if she knew I told you to read this book now and I would not want to suffer her anger or her ignoring me henceforth.
> 
> As we are talking on prophecies on general, please promise me that you keep your pursuit academic and do not seek out fortune tellers and woods witches. Some of Rodrik Stark’s warnings rang true and I would rather we err on the side of caution than risk any mishaps in your future. I do hope the ghost of High Heart is not a charlatan. Your grandfather may have risked folly in marrying your parents to each other if that was the case.
> 
> Besides our talk on prophecies we talked more in depth about magic as well. Did you know that the Starks have a magic bloodline with certain similarities to our own? While we have slightly warmer blood than others and a little resistance to heat and fire, the Starks have colder blood than average and a slight resistance to coldness and frost. You should have seen the Wandering Wolf’s grandson's, little Eddard Stark’s face when I held my hand into the candle flame during dinner in my chambers. The boy did not make a sound but his eyes looked about ready to pop out of their sockets. I, on the other hand, was astonished by the little amount of clothing Rodrik and Eddard Stark needed while training in the courtyard and finally understood why they became the dominant force here in the North. They are just able to maneuver better while fighting than regular men due to being less hindered by layers of thick furs.
> 
> An interesting piece of information about magic was its influence on our appearance. Lord Rodrik told me that many races discovered the elemental types of magic and their proficiency was usually reflected in their eyes. Many have always theorized that our purple eyes and silver-golden hair are tied to Valyria and its magic but I never actually led credence to those rumors before. Now, I might revise my opinion on the subject. By Lord Rodrik words its actually only the eye color that is influenced by the latent magic we carry in our blood. For example, the Rhoynar and the Summer Islanders both have typically black eyes, an eye color apparently linked with water. It might hold true, the Rhoynar were famed for their water magic in Essos and the people of the Summer Isles are the foremost seafarer we know. The other known magical eye colors are grey for ice and violet and purple for fire. We contemplated on the eye color of the aeromancers of Asshai, but Rodrik said we would never know as they are always veiled and see through their perception of the winds. Would that I could verify that claim.
> 
> Anyways, the two Starks left at noon today in the company of a warg of the free folk to liberate the stolen daughter of a northern lord. I was sad to see them leave, I am sure there could have been many an interesting discussion to be had with the Wandering Wolf. No matter, he left me with a last name of a man with vast knowledge of the higher mysteries. We should try to get into contact with maester Marwyn of the Citadel, the man in line to become the next archmaester of magic.
> 
> I look forward to hearing from you again, nephew.
> 
> With love,  
>  Aemon Targaryen  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more of these. I've been thinking on how to best pass on information between characters and to you readers, so I have decided to let you read some of the letters they use to inform each other of important news. Is this still "show, don't tell"?  
> I honestly don't know. Still, it keeps me from having too many lectures by Rodrik to Ned all the time. That would grow boring too quickly.  
> Tell me if you guys like this solution.


	20. Haggon / Haunted Forest / 270 AC

“Have you decided on a name today, boy?”

Haggon asked his charge the same question as every other morning for the last for months. As his answer, he only received just another half-feral snarl. A sigh escaped his lips. Usually,he could be more lenient with the child. Not today.

“Do not snarl like you haven't left your beast. We will have company today, and if you do not behave, I will take to educating you like your father did.”

That got the boy to shut up. A pity. The puppy by his side, a half-dog, half-wolf mutt, did not. Their senses bled over into each other's. What the boy needed the most was discipline. Still, it would do today.

Haggon Beastfriend and his apprentice broke camp in silence and made their way towards Castle Black. Already the elder warg could see a party to welcome him and his fur sledge, however, the number was greater than usual. Vaunted men among them, too, as a quick look through Cloudsoar showed him. Both the Lord Commander and the resident Maester stood out in the cold.

The boy was kept tame as they arrived of the foot of the high southern border, looking up in awe at the specter that hung above every child in the True North from the moment they take their first breath. Haggon was already used to it.

Lord Commander Qorgyle directed a crow to offer some bread and salt, in which both Haggon and the boy quickly partook. Introductions were made after. While his charge looked somewhere between terrified and wonder at meeting the Lord Commander of the crows, it was the man behind him that gave Haggon pause.

Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf. In the flesh, beyond the Wall. The name carried, both Stark and his personal moniker. The last time the man had traveled the True North he’d made friends and enemies from the Thenns to the cannibals of the ice river. And he’d brought a pup, only a year older than the boy Haggon himself was saddled with. 

He felt it, there, in the shadow of the Wall, even as the magic of the structure should have drowned out all other sources, he felt it. His own spark, hardened and trained, strong in intent. His charge’s spark, feral and lashing, strong in power. Rodrik Stark’s spark, old and withered, wasted strength. The pup’s spark, a deep well that was dormant, strong in potential. Why was the boy there, waiting for him with the others?

Haggon knew the songs, of the Breaker and Joramun, of the Kings of Winter of old, of the subjugation of the Marsh King and the Warg King. Haggon knew. But how was the blood so strong after millennia, when Haggon had not heard of a powerful warg to the south, especially one of the name Stark? He knew of a few of the old lines that still had the spark, after all.

They all stood sizing one another up for a few minutes, until the old Maester hurried along to prove his unfailing kindness. Not all had been introduced, and the children seemed to appear to the old man a good way to ease tensions. Fool.

“Haggon, this is the first time we’ve seen you in human company. Who is it that you brought with you today? Your son?”

The man had the audacity to smile at his charge, a little patronizingly. The boy did not like, but he was wary not to snarl. The mutt, however, did. Both of the Starks looked immediately at it, the older in realization and the younger seemingly from instinct.

“Maester, this is my apprentice. Call him boy.”

While the elder Stark in the back seemed to have gleaned enough of an understanding of that sentence and his knowledge of the free folk, the old Maester only had a slight look of confusion in his weak eyes.

“Just boy? That cannot be, from his height he must’ve gotten his name neigh on two years ago. Child, what should I call you?”

Five. Five years ago. Frail and weak and sickly that his charge was, a proper name had been denied to him by his parents in expectance of his death, even after he’d turned six in their care. Lump. No, better for him to choose his own name in time Haggon had decided after he’d taken him on. The boy did show his snarl then, as he looked at the old Maester to answer.

“Boy. Call me boy.”

The Maester seemed to realize he made a mistake, just not the nature of it. Haggon did not really care. He was happy just selling of his skins and turning around. Rodrik Stark, as it turned out, was not. After business was done the man himself approached Haggon with a generous offer.

“Haggon Beastfriend. I wish to hire you for a short chase. Hopefully.”

There was a wary glint in the man’s eyes. Good. Haggon hated dealing with fools, and no one smart ever underestimated a warg or any man of unknown capabilities.

“Pity. I do not particularly want to work with or for you, Stark. Have one of your crow friends’ rangers take you.”

“They are out, and I need an excellent tracker. You would see yourself well rewarded. An Umber daughter was taken, probably on a slaving raid. She is only nine name days, too young to be stolen yet.”

At least to be a bride. Haggon heard the unspoken words between them. An ugly truth, and few despised slavers like the free folk. Especially amongst themselves. An Umber debt was also not to be discounted. Still, the real prize would need to come from the man in front of him.

“She is. Daughter to which Umber?”

“Crowfood.”

“Hmpf. Shriveled old cunt. The Lord himself would be a reason. Why should I care for a younger brother, if even the heir to Last Hearth is already known to us here in the True North. Mors Crowfood’s favor is not good enough when the man himself is not here to offer it.”

Rodrik Stark needed little prompting. What followed was mere bargaining.

“What do you want, warg?”

“Depends. How many men do you have, how many are we chasing? How many captives to free? Where do we start trekking the raiders?”

“We’re eigtht, sufficient horse to take you and your boy along and change in between to keep pace. Four raiders, only that one girl. They crossed about three to four days ago at Oakenshield on foot.”

“The boy doesn’t know how to ride.”

Rodrik Stark did not look like he cared as he answered.

“We’ll pay more. He’ll learn the hard way.”

Haggon did not care that much either. Maybe a prey horse would turn the boy less feral.

“What of my wagon, my skins and my supplies?”

“Do you want it stored here or be overcompensated for it in gold?”

“I’ll take the gold. For my fee, four horses after, five gold bracelets, a favor from you.”

A slight sneer from the Wandering Wolf before the man answered. Merely posturing, but such was business.

“Two horses from the replacements, neither my nor my grandson’s mounts. Coins to the weight of three bracelets. No favor from me, but Mors’ son rides with us. You’ll get a favor from the Umbers.”

“Your favor is worth a lot more than Crowfood’s. Six horses, and coins to the weight of eight bracelets. Get Othell Yarwyck and some crows to fortify and expand my keep and we have a deal.”

Rodrik Stark looked at him once more.

“Yarwyck’s second.” 

Haggon agreed to the caveat, it was good enough for him.

“We leave today,” the Stark commanded without inflexion. He was still imposing enough.

And they did. Karl Umber agreed promised Crowfood’s favor and the deal was struck. Their party rode in the northern shadow of the Wall for the rest of the day before reaching Oakenshield by dusk. His charge did not like riding, and failed to connect with his horse. The Stark pup, Eddard, almost did not even mutter a single word the whole time Haggon had seen him, only some goodbyes to Castle Black’s Maester and the Lord Commander.

Greyskin, one of his wolves, picked up a trail at Oakenshield soon enough. The four raiders had dwindled to three, one burnt husk lay broken beneath the ruined keep, having fallen during the climb. Still, the scent of the girl indicated she was alive and to the north of them, somewhere in the Haunted Forest.

They set out into the woods the day after, Cloudsoar flying ahead to search for their human prey. Haggon had been ready to leave at dawn. The two Starks appeared to have woken before him, the younger looking mildly exhausted already as the sun rose. His charge still seemed sore from the ride yesterday, even so no one seemed to care to ride a pace less harsh today.

When they put up their camp again for the night they must’ve been less than a few hours behind the three raiders. This night Haggon took over Greyskin and moved further towards the camp of the men they were pursuing, at least until he felt a familiar enough presence that caused him to turn around into himself. Better to meet her awake and human, he decided.

Still, as his consciousness returned to his body, he felt a nearby spark turn into a literal bonfire. He had not expected that to happen. Maybe the magic was freer here, causing the boy to awaken now, but wargs looked out for wargs. So they would not turn feral. So they would not mate as wolves. So they would not eat or possess human flesh.

However, Haggon was feeling rather dreadful as he rose. Being killed in rage by the Wandering Wolf because you had to tell him that his grandson had awoken as a powerful warg and now would need training was not the way he had wanted to go out. Hopefully the man would not see it reason enough to run him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update!
> 
> ... unless you lurked in the comments of "Brothers in Blood" and noticed the pledge RedAquilla and I made to both update on our more neglected stories (#shameless self-promotion). He put up chapter 11 on "Summer came into the North" yesterday, here is my contribution.
> 
> That, probably, everyone knew was coming. Magic, wooo.


End file.
